Harry Potter and the Renascent Seer
by gleefulmusings
Summary: When Cordelia Chase falls into a coma, it's up to Xander Harris to see to her care. With help from Anya, he finds hope halfway across the world. Meanwhile, Harry Potter is coming to a few realizations about his life, deciding he really doesn't care for them much at all. Het, slash, femslash, bashing, deaths, etc.
1. The Fall of the Queen

**Author's Note**: This is an old story I've decided to rework because I've missed writing it. I'm hopeful that editing and posting here will inspire me to add to it. In a nutshell: Cordelia goes to Hogwarts; Harry gets a reality check; Dumbledore cries a lot. _Buffy_ Season 5 AU / _Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince_ AU. Good but naive Dumbledore, a mostly indifferent Snape, slash for Harry, no Hermione/Ron, Draco is forever an asshole, and lots and lots of Luna. Some Willow and Buffy bashing because they get on my nerves. Tara and Riley are written as much stronger, more interesting characters because I like them. In this verse, Cordy and Willow didn't keep in contact, because that made no sense. Don't like the sound of any or all of it? Don't read. Peace out.

* * *

Buffy the Vampire Slayer was lazing about the living room in the apartment of her Watcher, Rupert Giles, along with her best friends Willow Rosenberg and Xander Harris after a particularly long and, unfortunately, pointless patrol.

Where had the vampires been hiding lately? She thought it very rude of them not to make themselves easily available for her to dispatch. Vampires were so...annoying. And evil. But most _really annoying_.

Also in attendance were her boyfriend, Riley Finn, and Tara Maclay, Willow's girlfriend. Xander's girlfriend Anya was currently in Giles's kitchen, rummaging through the refrigerator for something edible, loudly complaining that the selection was far too British and therefore entirely unsuitable.

Giles, who was referencing books in the corner into which he had made his library, remarked rather vociferously that perhaps Anya should part with some of her beloved money to stuff her face with whatever suited her fancy and thus silence her mouth.

Willow snickered at the Watcher's jibe. Xander initially had as well, but glowered darkly at nothing in particular when his best friend's giggle erupted into malicious laughter.

Buffy caught his look and inwardly sighed. He had come to her last week and asked her kindly yet pointedly to lay off the constant teasing she and Willow regularly inflicted upon Anya. When she had tried to laugh it off, he had gone very quiet, noting that he had been more than accepting of Riley and Tara, and before asking why he wasn't worthy of the same consideration.

Words of explanation had disappeared from her mouth before leaving her brain. She had seen that he was truly upset, and he had made an excellent point: she and Willow often _were_ unmerciful and quite petty when it came to Anya, and there was no real justification other than that the newly mortal girl made an easy and convenient target.

Buffy had felt the urge to snap that Xander had never been accepting of Angel, but that fire too was quenched, for she didn't want the conversation to devolve to a point which would result in him angrily storming off and not speaking to her for a month. It had taken a lot for him to come to the dorm and ask this of her.

He never asked anything of her, really, which suggested to her that perhaps he had learned his lesson from his treatment of Angel and was hoping that Buffy wouldn't use Anya to repay his former unkindness.

He was constantly supportive of everything she did, save her former relationship with Angel, which Buffy understood far more than she would ever admit. Angel was, after all, a vampire. While Xander's attitude about that still greatly annoyed her, she couldn't offer a blanket denial that Angel wasn't dangerous.

She was at once sharply reminded of the new distance which existed between she and Willow's once impossibly close friendship with Xander. She had known things would change when she and the witch went off to college, but she hadn't counted on just how much. Not having Xander constantly at her side was unnerving and disquieting. It had begun as a slight needling that something was absent, but lately it was a consuming ache which was, at times, stultifying.

Lately she had even caught herself turning around in the middle of class to make a snide comment about a professor, fully expecting him to be there and join in the snark. She missed his opinions and observations and even his crude jokes. She missed his attention and his devotion and his fiercely protective insistence that anything or anyone wanting an audience with her would have to go through him first.

All of that longing had developed into an omnipresent generalized state of _wrongness_ which did not abate even when in his company, for now she had trouble trying to figure out how to act in response to the shift in dynamic.

Growing up really was a bitch.

"Willow, that's enough," she hissed.

The witch startled, her laughter died, and she stared. Was Buffy serious? It was, after all, Anya. Anya!

Buffy stared the girl down and Willow relented. The Slayer was surprised yet grateful for the nod of acknowledgment she received from Tara. Apparently Xander wasn't the only one who was bothered by her and Willow's treatment of Anya. Briefly, she wondered if Xander had discussed the matter with Tara who, admittedly, was much more sensitive than either she or Willow.

Tara and Xander appeared to have become a lot closer lately, and Buffy was slightly jealous of that fact. Actually, she was very jealous. She was also disappointed in her initial reaction that Willow was a lesbian and had chosen Tara over Oz. It was disappointing to realize she had that prejudice within her, and rather hypocritical considering how she had inflicted Angel upon all of her friends without giving their feelings or misgivings much consideration. After all, who was she to judge anyone's lifestyle? And Tara? Tara was damned good people.

Riley gently squeezed her hand in support and Buffy was suddenly flushed with warmth. The soldier understood how difficult it could be to stand up to your friends where the person you had chosen to be with was concerned. It was a fine line, trying to ensure that your friends understood you weren't necessarily placing them before your lover, but some things were not up for debate. Xander caught her eye and gave her his most blinding smile, and Buffy felt her heart lurch and tears wet her eyes.

It took so little to make him happy. Why?

She thought it best not to dwell on such things, however, and blinked back the sorrow.

Anya, however, emerged oblivious from the kitchen and began arguing good-naturedly with Giles. The Watcher tried to deflect her comments, but his every volley was matched and then surpassed by Anya's clever tongue.

Buffy didn't miss the sparkle in his eyes and hid her small smile. It was nice to see Giles opening up to the others. While still wary of Riley because of his distrust of the Initiative and Maggie Walsh, both of which had been proven worthy of that contempt, as well as because of his paternal feelings for Buffy, Giles still kept the peace. He was endlessly patient with and kind to Tara who, unfortunately, was still quite timid around anyone who wasn't Willow or Xander. With Anya, however, he was free to cut loose and release his inner bitch.

Buffy was jolted by the shrill bark of the telephone.

Giles held up one finger to silence Anya, who pouted petulantly and began tapping her foot, obviously having many more barbs just waiting on the tip of her tongue.

"Rupert Giles." The Watcher's face had gone from open to guarded, and Buffy cocked her head quizzically. "Yes. May I ask as to what this is in reference?" Whatever the answer was seemed to annoy the man. "Very well. One moment." He paused, and then thought better of it. "Please," he added.

Buffy smirked. Manners were impossibly important to her Watcher.

"Xander, you have a call."

The boy blinked. "Huh? Who's calling me? Everyone I know is here."

Everyone save Giles laughed. Anya went back into the kitchen, while Buffy and Willow returned their attentions to their respective lovers.

"I didn't recognize the name, but it's a hospital," Giles told him in a low voice.

Xander blinked again, small creases lining his forehead, then rose from his position on the couch to walk over and accept the handset.

"H-Hello?" he cautiously asked.

"Yes," he said after a moment, frowning.

He listened for a long time.

"I see. Yeah, I understand. I'll be there as soon as I can."

He ended the call, and the phone slipped from his hand, its loud clatter immediately drawing the notice of everyone in the room.

"Xander, what's happening?" the Watcher asked.

The boy's mouth opened, then closed. It opened again, but before any sound escaped, he collapsed, and found himself sitting on the floor, staring dumbly at the wall in front of him, promptly deciding it needed a fresh coat of paint.

Buffy was the first to reach him, practically stomping on Willow in the process. She and Giles exchanged words. Xander knew they were speaking, but was suddenly unable to comprehend the English language. The next thing he knew, Buffy was sitting cross-legged in front of him.

"Xan?" she asked gently, taking his hand. "Xander, what is it?"

He brought his head up and looked into her eyes, and Buffy almost flew back from the agony blazing in his gaze. Had he even heard her? Again, he opened his mouth, but couldn't form words, nor could he stop his tears.

By now, everyone was anxiously watching him, waiting for an explanation to a question they weren't sure they wanted answered, because Xander never cried, even when he really should have. Thoughts of Jesse skittered around the minds of many.

Buffy gently began rubbing his hand between hers, and it was only then he realized he was freezing.

"Hospital," he said, teeth chattering.

She nodded, silently urging him on.

He withdrew from the Slayer, and primly folded his hands in his lap as his tears seemed to freeze and his entire face blanked.

Buffy knew that look. She didn't like it.

He appeared to be considering his words carefully, as he now picked at his jeans, removing imaginary lint.

"Cordelia's in a coma."

His words fell like crystals shattering upon the floor.

Her eyes widened before she slammed them shut, hoping that if she just kept them tightly pressed it might negate what he had just said. This just wasn't happening, she decided.

Willow gasped sharply and covered her mouth with her hand, eyes filling. Tara looked at her questioningly before returning a glance to Xander and Buffy. Riley looked more confused than usual, especially given Xander's reaction, as well as that of Willow and Buffy; he desperately wanted to ask as to who this Cordelia was, but didn't want to interrupt.

Giles sat woodenly, staring off into space, his eyes tired and lips pursed until they looked like old scar tissue slashing across the bottom of his face. Anya had dropped her plate and was staring stupidly at the mess spilling across the floor.

No one knew what to say, so they said nothing. They waited for Xander to continue speaking.

"I have to go to L.A. Cordy listed me as her next-of-kin. The hospital can't authorize any treatment without my consent, and I have to be there in person to prove my identity and sign some papers."

Buffy shuddered at his flat monotone.

"But what happened?" Willow sharply demanded.

"The visions," he said dully. "It has to be the visions."

"Visions?" Riley asked with hesitation.

"Cordelia is Angel's Seer," a distracted Buffy remarked, not noticing how his eyes turned cold at the mention of the vampire.

"I should have done something," Giles seethed. "I should have found a way to take them from her. Those visions simply were not meant for a mortal to bear."

"Be quiet," Xander whispered.

The Watcher, however, continued unabated. "Blasted Wesley! That git should have been exploiting every detail at his disposal to fix this bloody mess! Doesn't he understand the peril that young girl is in? This is atrocious!"

"Stop it!" Xander screamed, trembling hands now covering his ears.

Buffy immediately backed up and Giles blinked; they knew that tone of voice. So did Willow, which was why she remained silent, watching Xander with wide eyes. Tara and Riley flinched before their gazes found each other; they had never seen Xander so angry, but apparently the others had.

"Cordelia would never give them up by choice," Xander said more sedately. "There's a price to pay for power, and she's chosen to pay it, no matter what anyone, including Wesley and Angel, have to say. She saves lives, and she's not about to let anyone make her choices for her. That's not who she is. That's not who any of us is."

Giles conceded the point with a nod, his eyes shining at his memories of the tart-tongued beauty queen who had served as a walking reality check for the entire group for three years. Memories, however, did little to assuage his guilt.

"Did the hospital say anything else?" asked a demure Anya.

Xander sighed, pressing two fingers to his weary eyes. "There are _intercranial anomalies_." He placed two fingers over weary eyes. "That means she might have brain damage," he whispered through his fingers, his breath catching slightly. "They don't know the extent, and won't until she wakes up." He paused. "If she wakes up."

Buffy released a strangled sob while silent tears streaked down Willow's cheeks. The idea that Cordelia Chase, one of the smartest and most vicious minds either knew, was suffering so greatly simply because she chose to do _the right thing_ was heartbreaking, an unwelcome reminder of their own fragile mortality. Giles held his silence but his mourning was apparent. Anya placed her hands on Xander's shoulders and winced when his immediately grasped hers, hanging on as if she were a lifeline.

"I'm sorry," Riley began, "but I don't know who Cordelia is, and what's a Seer?"

Before anyone else could pull their thoughts together to proffer an explanation, Anya beat them to the punch.

"Cordelia Chase was Xander's girlfriend in high school. She fought with Buffy and the others for three years and, after graduation, moved to Los Angeles to become an actress. She met up with Angel and began the agency with another man; Doyle, I think his name was. He was a Seer, a representative of the Powers That Be."

His brow furrowed.

"Basically," she continued, "Doyle received visions of people Angel was supposed to help. There was an apocalypse and Doyle died, but not before passing the visions on to Cordelia. Doyle was a half-demon, and while the visions hurt him, he could somewhat control the pain. As Giles said, visions of that power simply aren't meant for a human mortal."

"That was...succinct," Riley offered, for once grateful for Anya's clipped brevity, "but how come I've never heard of her before? I mean, I know about Oz and A-Angel," hissing the last name through gritted teeth, "but no one's ever mentioned Cordelia."

Tara shook her head warningly, but the gesture went unnoticed.

"That's because Buffy and Willow hate her," Anya chirped, "and they hate me because I remind them of her."

"Oh," Riley replied, nodding. He had a pretty good idea of what _that_ meant.

Indeed, Willow and Buffy flinched at the comparison. _Was that true?_ each wondered. Was their dislike for Anya partly carried over from their distaste for Cordelia? If that was the case, they were...quite pathetic, really. They noticed in particular Xander's silence on the matter, which was when they recognized the veracity of Anya's claim.

Tara and Riley eyed each other, both thinking that anyone whom Xander was dating would likely be met with hostility from his best friends. Buffy and Willow were ridiculously territorial when it came to Xander Harris; sometimes it almost seemed as if blazing orange cones were placed around the boy to warn off potential loiterers.

They might as well have peed on him and marked him as theirs.

Tara and Riley felt they somewhat understood where Anya was coming from, if not the degree. Both Willow and Buffy had subtly discouraged them from forming attachments to Xander, for no other reason than that they simply didn't want to share him. Luckily, he had taken it upon himself to establish relationships with them, and both were glad for it, as he was the most grounded of the Scooby Gang.

"We don't hate Cordelia!" Buffy barked, before her tone lost its bluster. "We just...well, no, we didn't like her. We just didn't get along. But it's not like we'd ever wish something like this on her! Besides, it wasn't one-sided. She didn't like us either."

"You're so obnoxious," Willow grunted, glaring at Anya.

"Maybe," Anya responded, "but I'm also honest. You don't like anything which paints you as less than the martyr you so desperately want to be." She raised a brow. "Why are you so concerned with Cordelia's health now? Have either one of you even spoken to her since she left? No, and Buffy was in L.A. last year." She put her hands on her hips. "The last time Cordelia was in the hospital, neither you nor Buffy could be bothered, or did you forget that pesky re-bar through her stomach?"

Riley and Willow both blanched, for entirely different reasons.

Buffy opened her mouth, but was cut off by Xander. "Tara, will you go with me, please?"

"Of course."

"What!" Willow screeched.

"Xander, I think I should go with you," Buffy countered.

He stood, waving off her helping hands. "Oh no. I'm going to have enough trouble with Angel as it is. I don't you need there causing more."

She flushed with embarrassment and anger. "That wouldn't happen!"

He snorted. "Right, because ever since he helped Faith, you and Angel are the best of friends." He shook his head. "Look Buff, I appreciate the sentiment, I really do, but you and I both know that whenever you and Angel get together now, it's only a matter of moments before you start fighting. I don't have time for it, and I'm not about to allow it around Cordy."

"You shouldn't go alone," she weakly pressed, knowing but not wanting to admit that his reasoning was more than justified.

"I'm not," he stated, his frosty tone suggesting the subject was closed to debate. "Tara will be with me."

"You need someone with power!"

Tara frowned.

"Hey!" Willow screamed.

The Slayer winced. "No offense to Tara, but she's not as powerful as Willow. I don't want you going there and having to deal with them and not having the backup you need. Angel hates you, Xander, and Wesley was horribly jealous of you and Cordelia, even though you two were already broken-up."

"Willow's spells work, at best, half the time, or did you forget your engagement to Spike?" Xander volleyed, sneering.

Buffy shuddered. "Never bring that up to me again."

He smirked.

"Hey!" Willow again bellowed, not sure which of her two best friends she was addressing. "I made cookies to apologize! _Good_ cookies! From scratch and everything! We're talking premium chocolate morsels here, people!"

"Xander..." Buffy tried.

"No. No, Buff. I want to take Tara. I trust her completely, and I'll need someone calm and rational and objective to help me through this, because I'm going to be a wreck and Angel's going to try and undermine me every step of the way. And I think Tara has more power than anyone, including her, even knows."

He nodded to himself. "Besides, there's no one else. Anya needs to stay here for work, and I can get off with no problem since the crew's in between projects right now. If you or Riley go, you'll just end up fighting with Angel, and then he'll resent my presence even more. If Giles goes, he'll fight with Wesley. If Willow goes, well, that's just not a good idea."

Riley didn't understand why that was and was about to ask, but was beaten to the punch when the Watcher cleared his throat.

"Who's left, then?" Xander posited, cutting Giles off at the pass. "The Fangless Wonder?"

Buffy couldn't stop her sneer. The idea of Spike and Angel fighting it out in a hospital was amusing, but certainly not conducive to helping Cordy.

"Angel's going to fight you on anything you try to do for Cordelia," Giles said blandly, not wishing to incur the boy's wrath and knowing that Xander was absolutely correct; after initial panic subsided, his plans were usually the most successful.

"He can try," Xander said, shrugging. "I can't really blame him. If it were Willow or Buff in place of Cordy and he tried to come in and take over, I'd be pissed, too. But I think he understands that he has no power in this situation, and he'd want Cordy to get the best care possible."

"And Wesley?" Willow asked.

"He's a nonentity."

"Xander!"

"Will, as far as I'm concerned, he completely missed the boat with Faith. She made her own choices, but he was a piss-poor Watcher and some of the blame for her actions resides with him, as well as with Giles for deferring to a moron. I know Cordy likes Wesley now, and that's fine. Maybe he really has changed and isn't the guy we used to know, but as far as I'm concerned, that's irrelevant. He's not going to be dictating anything to me."

Giles flinched at Xander's offhand rebuke; his guilt for his part in Faith's later actions hung like a perpetual guillotine over his neck.

Willow nodded thoughtfully, though she scowled at the mention of Faith's name. Buffy, too, silently agreed with his assessment, but was nowhere near ready even to begin to deal with her memories of the Faith and the path of savagery she had cut across the Hellmouth. It was cold comfort to know she now resided in a dank cell in Los Angeles.

"Okay," she declared, nodding.

Xander stiffened. "I hope you didn't think I was asking your permission."

Buffy started. Had she really sounded so autocratic? That hadn't been her intention at all. She knew she had a tendency to assume a general's air when dealing with her friends, but she did recognize that this wasn't about her; in fact, it had nothing at all to do with her.

"I didn't mean it that way," she said quietly. "I'm just worried. About Cordy _and_ about you."

His eyes softened and she melted.

"I know," he whispered. "This is just...well, it sucks, really." He bit his lip. "I guess I just assumed that whatever happened, Angel would take care of her, would somehow make everything all right."

He frowned. "And when the hell did I start thinking that about him? Weird." He shook his head. "I'm blaming myself for not checking in on her. I've tried to leave her alone because I know she's really never gotten over what happened that night, and I don't want to hurt her any more than I already have."

"You still love her," Anya quietly said.

"Yeah," he admitted, unashamed and unapologetic. "She was my first love, and she'll always have a place in my heart. I can't just refuse to help her."

"I know," she murmured.

So did Buffy, and as much as she wanted to disabuse Xander of the notion of taking Tara and not her, she no longer had any fight left. She would and had done the same for Angel.

Xander cleared his throat. "Tara, why don't you and Willow head back to the dorms, gather what you need, and I'll pick you up, okay? I'd like to talk to Anya."

The witch nodded. "No problem."

"Xander..." an annoyed Willow began.

"Just...not now, Will, okay?" he said. "I'll call you when I get there. I really don't have time to debate this."

His tone was quiet but icy, and Willow knew that no matter what she said, he was not going to be swayed. She nodded, but her silence indicated she was unhappy with his declaration.

Xander recognized this and his answering silence made clear that he frankly didn't care.

She was stunned but gathered up her purse. She locked eyes for a moment with Tara, whose gaze was steely and Willow knew she had no hope of persuading her not to go along with Xander's proposal. Resigned, Willow kissed Xander, said her goodbyes, and left with Tara in tow.

Riley walked over to Xander and placed his hand on the younger boy's arm. "Are you sure about this, Xan?" he softly asked.

"Positive," he replied with a nod, placing his hand over Riley's, grateful for the older man's concern and support. "Cordy needs me."

Riley returned the nod, gave him a manly half-hug, and led a weakly protesting Buffy out of the apartment.

Xander turned to Giles, eyes wide. "I'm scared."

The Watcher enveloped him in one of their rare embraces. "You can do this, Xander. You do what is best for Cordelia, and don't worry about Angel or Wesley. Cordelia listed you for a reason, and it's apparent that it is you she trusted to make these decisions in her stead. You know her better than anyone. That hasn't changed merely because she moved and you've fallen out of touch. If you need anything, just call."

The boy nodded and placed a gentle kiss on the man's cheek. "Thanks, Dad."

Giles felt tears stinging his eyes, but refused to succumb. Xander needed him to be strong now. He would be that for his...son.

"Go on, then. Go save our girl. That's what you do, you know."

Xander smiled sadly, took Anya's hand, and the pair said their goodbyes to the Watcher.

He guided her to his truck and opened the passenger door. Once he was settled behind the wheel and had started the car, she took a long look at him.

"Are you really okay?" she whispered.

"No," he said, voice thick. "I'm really not."

She nodded, and they rode in silence to their apartment.

* * *

Anya was in the kitchen, making some sandwiches for Xander and Tara, while her boyfriend hurriedly packed a bag. They walked into the living room at the same time and he gratefully took the food .

"Are you okay with me going?" he asked.

She nodded. "Of course. For once, I'm really not jealous, Xander. I liked Cordelia. She was nice to me, even when she had no reason to be, especially after that wish debacle." She grimaced. "If you and I ever broke up, I'd do what she did. I'd want you taking care of me, too."

She nodded. "I'm not happy that you have to leave, and I'm more upset about Cordelia than I thought I would be, but I'm proud of you and I'm glad Tara will be with you."

"I love you." He couldn't think of any pretty words, so he settled for the unvarnished truth and hoped she would understand all the sentiments behind it.

She smiled. "I know that. I love you, too."

Finally, he broke down. "Oh, God, An. What if she dies? I don't know how I'll handle it. It was bad enough with Jesse. Then with Jenny and Kendra. Now, Joyce is sick and Cordy's in a coma." He shook his head, his voice dropping. "I don't think I could take it if she dies."

Anya donned her version of Willow's Resolve Face. Xander was not to be coddled when he gave in to his moroseness. Kicking his ass was the only way to go.

"Now you listen to me," she barked. "Cordelia Chase is one of the strongest people I know. If anyone can get through this, it's her. You know this."

She paused and waited for him to nod.

"Still, I'm not going to lie to you. I was a demon for over a thousand years, Xander, and Cordelia is the first mortal I've ever known to be the Seer. Frankly, I'm surprised she's managed this long. That she has is a testament to her strength of will and perhaps suggests there's some plan behind all of this."

She nodded. "So you go, you do everything you possibly can and, if the worst happens, you be there for her and you'll know it wasn't your fault."

He laughed mirthlessly. "Easier said than done, but thank you. Thank you for being honest."

"It's what I do," she chirped.

"Yeah, it is," he agreed, placing a loving kiss on her lips. "Do me a favor?"

"Of course."

"Can you check around, look through some books or ask some of your old contacts, and see if there's anything that can be done? I don't know if the visions can be taken from her, but she wouldn't want them to be anyway. Even if they were, I doubt it would erase the damage already done. But could you see if there's any way to make them easier to bear?"

He frowned, thinking. "In fact, any information you could find out would be helpful. Not a lot is known about this. How did Doyle give her the visions? Why her? What is it she sees? How does she experience them?" He paused for breath. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be dumping this on you."

She rolled her eyes. "Please. By now I'm a research pro, and I work in a magic shop. I still have some friends in the demon community, so I promise I'll find out everything I can."

"Thanks," he whispered.

"It's nothing less than you would do for me," she said, knowing it was true.

"I'll call you when I get there."

"You'd better."

* * *

After Xander left to pick up Tara, Anya sat on their couch, pondering his request. Surely there was some information out there; there had to be.

If only she knew someone who...

She started and sat straight up. Maybe this wouldn't be as impossible as she thought.

She dashed over to the phone and quickly placed a call. As she waited for the connection to go through, she paced restlessly. This was going to be dangerous. She had avoided her old haunts and clients because there were any number of people who'd want to punish her for the wishes she had granted while still a demon.

While she still couldn't say she was thrilled to be mortal once more, she had adjusted and had made a good life for herself. She had a nice place to live, a decent job, and a man she loved who loved her in return, which was more than most people had. She wasn't going to just throw all that away.

Still, Xander had asked for her help and he never asked for anything. He gave her love, attention, gifts, and the all-important orgasms. She couldn't live with herself if Cordelia died and she hadn't done everything she could to help. She couldn't do that to Xander, to Cordelia, nor to her own conscience. Finally, the other party picked up.

"It's about time!" she shouted. "Don't you know how to work a damned cell phone?"

She dismissed the litany of insults immediately spat forth.

"As much as this sickens me to say, I need your help," she said. "Actually, Xander needs my help, and I can't do it without yours. I'll pick you up in fifteen."

With that, she disconnected, grabbed her keys and purse, and stormed out.

* * *

Xander arrived at Stevenson Hall, happy to see Tara waiting outside for him. He was a little worried, however, that she was standing all alone, _at night_, in an open area. He pulled up in front of Stevenson Hall, parked the car, and got out to open Tara's door for her.

"Why are you out here by yourself?" he demanded. "Hello? Hellmouth?"

She waved him off and released the wards she had set around her.

"Oh, yeah," he said, nodding. "You're a witch!"

She didn't stop laughing at him until they were a good five miles out of town.

* * *

"Oi, bint!" Spike bellowed as Anya threw open the door of his crypt. "What's this about needing me to help the Slayer's bellhop? What in bloody hell makes you think I'd want to do something like that?"

She sneered. "What you want is of no concern to me. Here's the deal: Cordelia's in a coma and Xander's listed as her emergency contact. He grabbed Tara and they took off for L.A. If you don't want to help, fine, but if Cordelia dies, I'll make damned sure that Xander, Buffy, Willow, Giles, Tara, Riley, Joyce, Dawn, and Angel all know that you could have helped her and didn't. Somehow, I don't think your chipped state is enough to convince them not to dust you."

"No need to get threatening!" the vampire barked. "Fine, I'll help your sodding boyfriend, but if it works, you make sure to tell everyone of my part, yeah?" He smirked. "That should keep me in blood and smokes for the foreseeable future."

"My hero," she drawled.

* * *

"How's Anya doing with all of this?" Tara cautiously asked.

Xander shrugged. "Honestly? A lot better than I thought she would. She says she's not jealous, and I believe her. People really underestimate her. I think they'll learn the hard way what a mistake that can be."

She nodded.

"I'm sorry I dragged you into this," he muttered.

She waved her hand dismissively. "You didn't drag me into anything. If I didn't want to be here, I wouldn't be. I may be shy, but I'm not the meek kitten Buffy and Giles are convinced I am." She paused. "I have to admit, I'm very curious about meeting these other people. I've heard about Angel, and a bit about Wesley."

"And I'm sure you got an earful about Cordelia."

She laughed. "Yeah, but don't worry. I know to take Willow's condemnations with a grain of salt."

"Cordelia is a really good person," he said through gritted teeth.

"She must be. She chose you, and you still love her."

He smiled for the first time since that phone call.

* * *

"What the hell are we doing here?" Spike demanded of Anya, as she guided her car into a space in front of Willy's bar.

"The lowlife who owns this establishment has equipment which I require."

He looked askance, first at Anya, then at the bar. "You can't be serious."

"Of course I am," she snapped. "Why the hell else would I be here?"

"Well, what do you need me for?" he barked.

"Protection," she replied, rolling her eyes. "What else? You can't harm humans, but now that I don't have any powers, I need you to get me through the sea of demons inside. By all means, use violence if necessary. In fact, even if it's not." She grimaced. "Unfortunately, neither of us get enough opportunities anymore."

He nodded, temporarily placated as he realized that Anya was probably one of the only people who could understand his current limitations, until another thought occurred to him.

"What about Willy? What's his incentive for helping you? Gonna use the Slayer as leverage?"

"Not unless I have no other choice," she said. "I don't want her finding out about this and sticking her bent nose in my business, trying to take over everything. I guess I'll just have to rely on threats and intimidation." She shrugged. "If it fails, feel free to destroy the place."

His eyes burned amber with the thought of smashing furniture and faces. "What are we waiting for?"

* * *

"How much longer, do you think?"

Xander gave a mild shrug. "About another hour, I suppose. The real challenge will be finding the hospital. I've never really navigated downtown L.A."

"I'll just do a mystical MapQuest when we get there," she said.

"In case I haven't done so already, thank you for coming with me," he said.

"I was happy to," she said, "although Willow wasn't exactly thrilled with my decision."

"I'm sure," he said curtly.

"Will you tell me what happened between you, Willow, and Cordelia?" she asked. "Willow refuses."

He nodded and launched into the story, not sparing himself or Willow any of the condemnation they deserved.

By the time he was finished, Tara was almost sure Willow had used a spell against Xander and Cordelia when they were in high school. She'd wait until she could talk with Willow, of course, before saying anything. But if she was right, Willow had a lot to answer for, and she would make sure Willow did indeed answer, to both Xander _and_ Cordelia.

* * *

"What do you have there?" Riley asked.

Buffy smiled. "My high school yearbook."

"Feeling like a trip down memory lane?"

She regarded him with wide eyes. "I don't know what I'll do if she dies."

He frowned, discomfited, unused to seeing her so vulnerable. "I thought you didn't like Cordelia."

"I don't, or I didn't, but I don't want to see her dead. It will destroy Angel and Xander."

He grimaced.

"God," she sighed again, "could you just give me a break with the Angel-hatred for one night, please?"

"Sorry," he mumbled, flushing.

"Thank you," she said stiffly. "I know you don't like him, Riley, and that's fine; I don't expect you to. But he and I went through a lot together, and I can't just stop caring because you tell me I should, any more than Xander can stop caring for Cordy. Angel is my friend, but that's all he is, and I don't want to think about what will happen to him if Cordelia doesn't make it."

"Are they close?"

She paused. "I think so, but not in any romantic way. I know they love each other, but it's more in a best friend kind of way, like me and Xander."

That drove home the point. He knew that if what was happening to Cordelia had happened to Xander, Buffy would most likely go insane. She had often said she had never felt anything for Xander other than friendship, but Riley sometimes wondered if she protested too much, as though she were trying to convince herself of that claim.

While he understood that Buffy was ridiculously possessive of Xander, he also realized that it was Xander who would never cross the line which would take their relationship to the next level if the opportunity ever arose, partially out of respect for Riley and because of the boy's obvious, though sometimes curious, adoration of Anya.

Still, it was apparent Xander had once carried a torch for Buffy. Even though it had since been extinguished, sometimes Riley discerned a connection between the two which was far stronger than the one Xander had with Willow. Now he wondered how much Cordelia had to do with that.

He also suspected that behind Buffy's description of Angel and the Seer's relationship was the simple truth that Cordelia most likely would never involve herself with a vampire, no matter her feelings. His respect for this unknown woman soared, and then, sparing a glance at Buffy, he felt shame.

"Are you worried about Xan?"

She nodded slowly. "They don't mix well, Riley. Your encounter with Angel doesn't even compare. Xander and Angel never use fists; they use words, and it's scarier than any punch or kick. Every conceivable analogy of opposites you can think of apply to them."

He briefly wondered if the adage of opposites attracting was relevant to that comparison, and then questioned why an affirmative answer would have bothered him.

"Whenever they're together, they end up fighting. While it can be amusing to watch, it's also painful."

"What do you mean painful?"

"You've seen when Xander goes off on me or Willow, right?"

He nodded. It wasn't pretty. Xander held no punches.

"Well, ratchet it up by about a hundred, and that's Xan and Angel; they're combustible. They know just what to say to get under the other's skin, and Xander is merciless. I've never seen Angel get upset the way he does around Xan. And even though Angel knows better than to hurt him physically, they're pretty much the male version of me and Faith."

Riley frowned at that unpleasant description. "What did they fight about?"

"Me."

"I see."

"Now it's Cordy's turn, and I think it's going to be much, much worse."

* * *

"There's a space!" Tara cried, pointing her finger.

"Thank god," Xander muttered. "I know it's L.A. and all, but this traffic is ridiculous!"

"It's okay to be nervous," she said softly.

He sighed. "For once, I don't want to fight with him. This isn't about him, or me, or our twisted...well, whatever the hell it is. But I know he doesn't want me here, and he's going to make it difficult."

She snorted. "You just made your own point, Xan. It's not about him, so why are you making it about him?"

He blinked. "You're right."

She threw up her hands. "Oh my god, do you know how much time could be saved if you people would just accept that as a given?"

He smiled wryly at her. "Too bad Cordy's in a coma. She'd love you."

* * *

As soon as the boy crossed the threshold, Angel smelled him and recoiled.

It had been devastating to discover that Cordelia had chosen Xander over him, but, in a way, it made sense. That didn't make it hurt any less. Angel had naively believed that, after over a year, her affection for the boy might have waned, especially since they had parted under less than amicable terms. He had thought his time with Cordelia had meant something to her.

No, that wasn't fair.

He knew Cordelia loved him; however, like he and Buffy, Cordelia and Xander just somehow...fit. They could no more divorce their feelings entirely than he could unravel his from Buffy. Distance didn't matter; their bond had been formed early on, even if it was in throes of passionate enmity.

Sometimes he forgot that Xander had literally grown up with Willow and that Cordelia had been with them for all of it. Perhaps not at their side, but in their vicinity.

Sometimes it really was all about location.

He knew Xander had truly loved Cordelia, that he was one of the few who had. Buffy and Willow had thought the relationship was about hormones, and Giles had been relieved that Xander's heart would no longer be stomped upon unmercifully, though unwittingly, by Buffy.

Angel suspected Oz had known the depth of Xander and Cordelia's relationship, but the werewolf had never said anything. Of course, Oz had never said much at all. Sometimes, Angel really missed him.

Then he caught a scent which was similar to that of Willow, but knew that was patently ridiculous. Xander would no more bring Willow to Cordelia's bedside than Angel would bring Darla to Buffy's. Still, there was something familiar in the air.

Finally, he spied him checking in at the reception desk and waiting for Cordelia's physician to be paged. He noticed the young, shapely woman at his side and discerned it was she from whom that trace of Willow emanated.

_Tara_, he realized, recalling Cordelia's ranting after a phone call to Sunnydale had revealed the latest romantic entanglements. She had been furious that Willow had broken up she and Xander only to find love, in the end, with another woman.

_Tara Maclay_, Willow's lover and also a witch.

And extremely powerful.

He could see that power rolling off of her in waves, but her timid posture and huge, limpid blue eyes indicated that she was either unconscious or in denial of that power. He supposed that was good; Willow was powerful, but tainted. The spell she had used to restore his soul had been dark. As it had been her first real foray into true magic, it had shadowed everything she had done since. He wondered if the others understood that, if Tara sensed that.

Had Xander? Probably.

Angel took a long, appraising look at him, his first in two years. Physically, the boy had matured quite nicely, lumbering out of that graceless phase which had haunted his teenage years. His shoulders were broader, muscles more defined. He had let his hair grow out a little and the change was nice; it made his ears stick out less.

Xander Harris was, shockingly, a man now. He moved with purpose, and there was a fluid, almost feline, liquidity to his gait. A confidence which, although faint, simply hadn't been present before. Angel wondered if it was due to being at Buffy's side, or from Xander finally moving out from behind her shadow and into the foreground.

Suddenly Xander turned his eyes upon him and Angel flinched, unsure as to why.

The eyes were the same.

Xander's eyes had always been haunted, as if they were possessed by a knowledge of which their bearer fought to remain unaware. Briefly, he wondered what new horrors Xander had witnessed. The events which unfolded on the Hellmouth always had seemed to take a much harder toll on the boy than his friends.

If honest with himself, Angel had always been uncomfortable in Xander's presence. There were the spoken judgments, of course, but Xander also had a darker, quieter side to him. The young man often used babble to insulate himself, but his silences were deafening. All too often Angel had been left wondering what Xander had been really thinking in the key moments of the three years they had spent in each other's company. He doubted he'd ever know.

Xander was as much of an enigma as he ever was. He was...too much like Angel himself.

The boy continued to stare at him, and Angel couldn't help but wonder what it was he saw. The connection was severed, however, when a team of doctors strolled up to Xander and began speaking in low tones, presumably about Cordelia's condition.

Xander quickly paled and seemed to shrink inside himself as Angel watched him absorb the information. He figured that Xander hadn't fully comprehended what the coma entailed, of the damage that had been done; or maybe he simply had received a confirmation of his worst fears.

A touch on the shoulder from Tara seemed to steady him, and Xander began nodding and asking appropriate questions. It was surprising how someone so unassuming, _someone_ _so very not Willow or Buffy_, could quell Xander's anxiety.

Angel resented his presence; he couldn't deny it. He didn't think it right, that after over a year of no communication with Cordelia, Xander now held power over her life.

However, there was another part of him which recognized that Xander had the ability to make tough decisions, to see the bigger picture. And it was that part to which Angel now listened, because he knew Xander would do nothing to compromise Cordelia and would stop at nothing to bring her back.

Gratitude was a new emotion for Angel to experience with regard to Xander Harris.

Perhaps it didn't matter so much that it was Xander who would be making the decisions, as it did that Angel himself wouldn't have to make them.

* * *

Anya stormed Willy's bar, Spike swaggering in just behind her and aching for a spot of violence. As soon as the vampire entered, the atmosphere darkened, and several of the demon patrons sank deeper into the background. While Spike might have been a traitor by aligning himself, however unwillingly, with the Slayer, the fact remained that he was powerful and had no compunction about killing any demon who got in his way.

Anya was also recognized; by some, as the girlfriend of the Slayer's pet male human, by others as Anyanka. Though once again mortal, she nevertheless had survived for over a millennium and had friends in places so high, their names were unspeakable. Her ruthlessness knew no bounds, whatever her physiology.

The two of them together was unsettling.

Spike, of course, had immediately captured the proprietor's attention, and Willy anxiously began to polish his shot glasses, much as Rupert Giles polished his spectacles whenever he was overtaken by nerves.

"Spike!" he weakly smiled. "What can I get you?"

"Excuse me, barman," Anya haughtily interrupted, "but I have a favor to request of you. The vampire is merely my protection. However, I have informed him that if you do not assist me, he may destroy your establishment and kill several of your...clients."

Willy stared while Spike sneered. Anya was a dizzy chit, alright, but damned if she wasn't forthright. He admired that. Saved a lot of time. And none of that inane chatter upon which the Scoobies insisted.

Handfuls of demons took the opportunity to escape the dive unscathed.

"Why should I do anything to help you?" Willy asked, trying in vain to stoke his bravado.

She frowned and cocked her head quizzically. "You mean aside from the very real threat of me destroying your livelihood?"

She nodded. "Fine. You wish to barter. I can appreciate that." She nodded again before narrowing her eyes. "If you do not assist me, I will ensure that the Slayer and her team step up patrols in this area, and I will further ask Angelus to return to Sunnydale and avenge me."

Whatever customers had remained immediately fled.

"What do you want?" Willy petulantly mumbled.

"I have use of your fireplace."

* * *

"Did Xander really cheat on Cordelia with Willow?" Riley asked. That didn't sound like the Xander he knew.

Buffy nodded. "It was just a kiss, but there was a lot of history behind it. You know that Willow dated Oz before Tara, but she had been in love with Xander since they were five years old. If he ever recognized it, he chose to ignore it. But once he started dating Cordy and Willow started dating Oz, Xander and Willow kind of drifted apart. For years, they were all the other had." She bit her lip. "Well, there was another friend, Jesse, but he died."

"How?"

Her eyes became haunted. "My first night in Sunnydale, Jesse was kidnapped by Darla, Angel's sire. She turned him. He showed up at the Bronze the next night and attacked Cordelia, so Xander..." her voice broke as her eyes filled with tears "...had to stake him."

"Jesus," he mumbled, running a hand through his hair. "Poor kid," unsure as to whether he was referring to Xander or Jesse.

"It was pretty brutal," she said. "Xander doesn't speak of it; neither does Willow, not even to him. The three of them had grown up together and had been best friends since kindergarten. Jesse apparently always had a crush on Cordy, and once he was turned, he figured he'd finally gotten his chance to get what he wanted. She told me that Jesse also planned on turning Xander."

She sighed. "Xander has always insisted that staking Jesse was an accident, but Cordelia knew. She told me that he had that look in his eyes. You know the one I'm talking about. The one that practically screams he'll do whatever it takes to protect his girls."

"But I thought Cordelia and Xander weren't friends for a really long time?"

"They weren't," she curtly agreed, "but there was always this weird mutual admiration society they had with each other. When Xander gets...annoyed, his cleverness becomes wicked, and Cordelia is the only one - and I do mean the _only_ one - who can match him. She's absolutely vicious. Anya doesn't even come close to her in that regard."

His eyes widened.

She nodded. "Yeah. Watching the two of them together was like watching _The Taming of the Shrew_, except you weren't sure which of them was the Shrew. It was...an obscenely beautiful ballet."

She shook her head. "Cordelia and I were never friends, but I had, and still have, respect for her. She and Xander made a freaky kind of sense, it's just that no one wanted to admit that at the time." She shrugged. "Besides, you don't have to be his friend to be one of Xander's girls."

Xander's Girls.

It was an elite club with what Riley once thought as having a clearly-defined membership, but he hadn't accounted for Cordelia. He knew that Xander would not only die to protect Buffy, Willow, Joyce, and Tara, but would kill to avenge them. He wondered just what Xander would do to protect Cordelia.

And was it really just limited to them? He had heard of Kendra and was far too familiar with...

He knew Buffy was thinking of Faith and decided it was best to keep the conversation on track. "So what happened? With Willow and Xan, I mean?"

She sighed again. "Once they started dating other people, I think that's when Xander finally realized Willow was a girl and not just his friend. Spike had kidnapped them to force Willow into making him a love potion which would lure back Drusilla. He took Xander as insurance. He locked them in a factory and things...happened. Cordelia and Oz found them."

"Ouch," he winced. "So is that what Anya was talking about before? Something about a re-bar?"

She flinched. "Yeah. When she saw Willow kissing Xander, Cordelia stepped back in shock and fell through some rotten flooring. She was impaled on a re-bar. She needed surgery, and after she got out of the hospital, she dumped him."

She paused and hung her head. "I wasn't a very good friend to him during that," she confessed, "probably because I had unconsciously sided with Cordy. He needed me, and I was there for Willow, but not him. He's never wavered, but I have." She looked away. "A lot."

"Which is why you didn't fight as hard as I thought you would have to go with him." At her nod, he again decided to shift focus. "Why did you say it that way? _Willow kissing Xander_?"

She looked at him, her eyes serious and searching. "This stays between you and me, right?"

"Of course."

"I've always thought she used magic on him."

* * *

Giles restlessly began another search through every volume in his home, resigning himself to the fact that he would most likely have to go to the shop for a more thorough investigation.

He slugged down another shot of Scotch, mindlessly blessing the inventor of the liquor, and tried to think of anything but Cordelia. _Anything_ but trying to consider what her death would mean to the others, especially Xander, but knowing that parts of Willow and Buffy would die with the Cordelia as well.

Trying not to think about Angel's pain; stubbornly refusing to feel sympathy for the creature who had murdered his lover, despite knowing the vampire would be destroyed were Cordelia to succumb. Knowing Wesley would join Angel in jumping into the abyss. Trying to avoid considering all of the innocent lives which would be lost were such actions to occur.

He leafed carelessly through the last text, knowing there wasn't any new information, nothing he hadn't already known, trying to suppress the flare of futility haunting his mind.

Nevertheless, he was determined to find a solution. He wasn't burying another child.

* * *

Xander was led into Cordelia's room, Tara's hand at his elbow, positive that her touch was the only thing keeping him upright. In that moment, all he could think of was how glad he was he had asked her, knowing anyone else would have offered useless platitudes or too-late apologies for past actions. There was no history between Cordelia and Tara, and if Willow had offered any criticisms, he trusted that Tara would reserve judgment for herself. Of course, Tara never judged anyone anyway; he loved her for that.

He stood at the foot of Cordelia's bed, looking down impassively at her prone form.

How could this be her?

Hauntingly beautiful, she was, yet obscenely ugly.

It was wrong.

It was wrong for her pallor to be so waxy. It was wrong not to see her toothpaste commercial smile. It was wrong to see her looking so thin. It was wrong to see her unable to breathe her own.

Nothing should ever obstruct that mouth, especially not a ventilator.

Didn't they understand? Didn't they know who Cordelia Chase was? She should be sitting up in her bed in a silk robe and a small tiara, barking commands and terrifying orderlies in all her Queen C glory. She should be on the phone yammering nonsense while restlessly flipping through the television channels. She should be filing her nails with the latest issue of _Cosmo_ balanced in her lap.

She should be out saving the world, like she had been doing for the past five years.

She shouldn't just be lying there, waiting for someone to do something. Cordelia never waited for anyone.

She looked so tired.

He choked back the giggle threatening to erupt. Ridiculous that a girl asleep for the foreseeable future should look so exhausted, but she did. Shadows smudged underneath her eyes, brow furrowed, tucked tightly into her blanket. He wondered as to the things she had seen these past two years, how they haunted her. Even unconsciousness provided her no respite.

Her tan was fading.

For some reason, that made him cry.

* * *

Tara watched Xander, unsure what to do.

So she did nothing. She just stood next to him but didn't touch him, offering silent support, hoping it would be enough, yet knowing it never could be.

* * *

Angel watched Xander through the observation window.

If anyone had ever wondered if Cordelia Chase and Alexander Harris had truly loved each other, all they had to do was look at the silent tears slipping down the boy's cheeks for their answer.

Suddenly a newer, even harsher sense of failure washed over him.

* * *

Willy showed Anya and Spike to the back room, pausing only momentarily to press a hidden panel on the wall, which automatically opened another door into a much smaller, much darker room.

Anya pushed the vampire inside and, struggling for a moment, found the corresponding button to shut the door behind them.

"What the bloody hell is this?" he snapped. "You bring me here to stare at a sodding chimney? Who are you, then, ducks? Mary fucking Poppins?"

Anya ignored him, a task she was finding increasingly easy and quite satisfactory, and stalked over to the hearth. Her eyes settling on a small cauldron on the mantel, she grabbed a handful of what Spike thought was ash and threw it down onto the grate, mumbling something the vampire couldn't quite make out, which was surprising, given his preternatural hearing.

A wall of green flame erupted, and Spike squawked in protest when Anya immediately bent and stuck her head into the fire.

"What the hell!" he bellowed.

Again, she ignored him.

* * *

Across the world, a woman of impeccable aristocratic bearing sat alone in her mansion, reading an ancient tome from her immense library. She looked up with indifference when her fireplace soared with light. Most likely yet another unwelcome message or foolish excuse.

She was startled, therefore, when a very familiar yet almost forgotten face appeared.

"Hello, Narcissa," Anya purred.


	2. Horizon

**Author's Note**: Everyone's sexuality in this story is somewhat fluid, so if that disgusts or scares you, abandon ship now. In this chapter, we check in with the Trio. Pay attention to what each thinks about specific topics; this will come up later in the story. BTW, pointing out characters flaws isn't bashing; it's prose. Get over it.

* * *

Narcissa, the Lady Malfoy, felt the mask with which she held the world in cool disdain momentarily slip from her grasp.

"You!" she charged.

She winced inwardly, appalled that she had allowed a reaction of such blatant surprise to overcome her inherent iciness. Being unoriginal was a grievous sin.

"Me," Anya agreed, grinning.

"What do you want, Anyanka?" Narcissa asked, struggling for the composure normally easy for her to muster.

Anya shrugged. "Just a small favor." She determined that as Narcissa appeared unaware she was no longer a demon, there was no good reason to inform her otherwise. Inspiring fear was fun.

"I owe you nothing. I made a wish and you granted it. The end."

"I disagree," Anya gently argued. "Of course, if you believe that Lucius wouldn't care to be informed that I cursed him in your honor, I will leave you alone in your empty mausoleum of a manor and seek an audience with him."

Narcissa's eyes narrowed and she waited.

"Your wish bound your husband to your side and ensured the birth of your son. Had it not been for me, Lucius would have left you, taken your inheritance, and you would have been resigned to a life of poverty and ostracism." Anya paused. "I have no desire to hurt you, Narcissa. Your wish was justified and I was happy to assist you. However, now I need help, and you're the only one in a position to do that."

"You need my help?" the woman almost screeched, abandoning all pretense of apathy in favor of shock and righteous indignation.

Anya merely nodded. "A friend of mine has been cursed with an extremely powerful gift, one far beyond the boundaries of either of our worlds."

Narcissa widened her eyes. She was fairly certain she knew what Anya meant, at least in the abstract.

"All I'm asking for is information. I want to help this person, but am at a loss as of where to turn. I need direction."

"What aren't you telling me?" The question was more of a blunt demand.

Anya paused again, unsure of how much to reveal, aware that Narcissa's loyalties extended only to herself and her son, not the Dark Lord. However, she wasn't sure if she was willing to place the lives of Cordelia, Xander, and herself on the line to test that belief. Finally deciding that, in this case, discretion was not the better part of valor, she inhaled deeply and launched into an explanation.

"The person who requires assistance is a True Seer, a direct conduit to the Powers That Be, and this person has ties with not one but three Champions, as well as being a Champion in their own right. The anomaly is that this person is mortal."

Narcissa swallowed with difficulty, trying to digest this information. "You mean a Muggle, a pure Muggle?" She was both intrigued and appalled.

Anya wrinkled her nose and nodded. "Really, Narcissa, that term is so ludicrous, I thought it beneath you, especially as you're wise enough to stay out of our world. But yes, this person manifested absolutely no magical ability prior to receiving the visions."

"Which is not to say they have no inherent magic."

"That is...very true," Anya grudgingly admitted, annoyed with herself for not seeing the obvious and at the woman's haughty, triumphant sneer. "It is possible there is latent ability, perhaps suppressed because of their time spent on the Hellmouth."

Narcissa ceased breathing. "The active Hellmouth?" she whispered in horror. "This person is from the Hellmouth?"

"Born and raised."

"This is," Lady Malfoy said, frowning, "interesting."

Her mind opened itself to the possibilities such a situation engendered. If the person for whom Anyanka was acting as envoy was indeed a True Seer with no other magical safeguards in place, then most likely the Muggle was already insane or half dead. The physiological damage might be able to be arrested, even possibly reversed, but psychological scars were almost impossible to erase.

Anya had already gleaned the woman's thoughts. "We are talking about a rather remarkable individual, Lady Malfoy. If I am correct, and I usually am, this person might well indeed be a Natural Occlumens. Insanity is not yet a factor, nor do I believe it ever shall be. However, the cumulative damage caused by the visions has resulted in coma. I doubt mortal physicians have much hope of rousing this person, but rather will be forced merely to render the body comfortable."

Narcissa did her best to hide her surprise and was remarkably successful. Although extremely rare, it was not unheard of for a Muggle to be skilled in the art of Occlumency. Certain people simply had a predisposition to guarding their minds, especially when raised in an environment in which personal weakness could be exploited for another's gain; she herself was a Natural Occlumens, for which she was endlessly grateful, what with having a sibling like Bellatrix.

Undoubtedly it was said talent which had allowed this person of whom Anyanka was representing to rail against the curse of the visions, which often resulted in severe mental instability.

The Lady Malfoy was heavily weighing her options. On the one hand, she rarely acted with benevolence in regard to another, especially a Muggle. However, a True Seer was a case worthy of consideration, particularly with Voldemort's rebirth and looming presence in her life and that of her son.

If it could be determined once and for all that Voldemort would fall at the hand of Harry Potter, she might finally free herself of the albatross which was her husband, stop hedging her bets, and do everything within her power to protect her son. She had foolishly bided her time, intending to approach Sirius for assistance, but then her idiot cousin went off and got himself killed by her accursed sister.

She had then set her sights on Severus, but that meant asking Bellatrix for aid, a truly noxious thought. Further, she often wondered just how deep Snape's affection for her son ran, and she was not about to put Draco in a position which might compromise his virtue, even for the sake of his own safety.

Also true was that Anyanka's threat was valid: were Lucius ever to learn she had him cursed so that he would remain faithful only to her and thus unable to sire an heir with another Pureblood, he had, under the Old Laws, the right to have her executed, and there would be any number of people ready and willing to assist him. The curse would then be rescinded, Lucius might disinherit Draco solely on principle, and he would then be allowed to beget offspring with a new wife.

Worse yet, he could simply turn her over to the Dark Lord, who would deny her a painless death. She shuddered to think how his potential treatment of her would affect Draco; it might be the final impetus for her son to affix firmly his pledge to Voldemort, and then he would be hunted and killed for being a Death Eater.

However, were she to accede to Anyanka's request, she might have considerable time to plan her defection and take Draco with her while still allowing her last card to stay safely hidden up her sleeve. She had waited so long to play it, however, she just hoped it still held power.

"I have conditions."

Anya nodded; she had expected as much, for she didn't believe someone as cunningly shrewd as Narcissa Malfoy would allow this opportunity to pass by without getting as much out of it for herself as she possibly could.

She listened patiently as the woman outlined her demands, which Anya felt were more than reasonable. Further, said plans would have no affect on her, Xander, or Cordelia, so she felt no compunction about complying. Seeing Narcissa's visible relief heartened her, but Anya was too intelligent not to recognize the woman's capacity for great treachery.

"I accept your terms," she stated, "but I must insist on an Unbreakable Vow before we proceed any further."

Narcissa instantly agreed, as there was no reason not to. "We need a witness."

Anya reached up and pulled Spike down into the fire, the vampire protesting the entire time. When he finally realized he was not burning, he settled down somewhat, though he pouted that magical fires apparently did not provide the warmth he craved. He then took one look at Narcissa and began to pour on the charm, but the woman was unimpressed.

"This is a vampire," she sniffed in disdain.

Anya shrugged. "I live on the Hellmouth."

The Lady Malfoy offered a very much put-upon sigh but at last acquiesced.

"Spike! This is what I need you to say..."

* * *

With Lucius away undoubtedly serving whatever sadistic proclivities the Dark Lord fancied this night, and Draco on holiday with the Zabini family, Narcissa was able to escape the Manor with relative ease.

How Lucius had managed to evade the Aurors after that night in the Department of Mysteries was beyond her, but happily he saw fit not to return often. He was most likely off toying with her sister or something even more unpalatable, such as kissing the hem of the Dark Lord's robes. Disgusting.

She Apparated to the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade. Casting a quick Chameleon Charm, she entered and approached Madam Rosmerta, asking the bar matron to contact the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Narcissa offered the password which Albus Dumbledore had instituted more than fifteen years ago shortly after Draco's birth, hoping it was still in effect.

Madam Rosmerta's eyes widened, and while she was unable to see through the charm, she was nonetheless aware that her visitor was most likely under the fealty of the Dark Lord. She quickly owled Dumbledore and anxiously awaited his response, indicating to the unknown woman that she should take a seat at the bar.

A short time later, the bright song of a phoenix burst forward into the Three Broomsticks and Narcissa breathed an audible sigh of relief. Now, the only task left was to get Dumbledore to agree to her request while still ensuring that the insufferable old git was unable to manipulate her into further action on his behalf. She well understood his methodology.

"There's a portkey tied around Fawkes' neck," Rosmerta said. "Simply touch it and both of you will be taken to Dumbledore."

Narcissa's eyes narrowed. "I thought portkeys didn't work on school grounds," she huffed.

This was most distressing, for it meant that Draco was far more at risk than she ever realized. She then suddenly remembered that an active portkey had found its way onto the campus less than a month ago. Now she realized that Lucius must have been involved, or at least had knowledge, despite his pleas of ignorance. Well, that was something she would have to address.

Rosmerta gave her a diffident smile. "You would be surprised at the amount of power Dumbledore has."

"On the contrary, you wouldn't believe just how unsurprised I am."

With that, the Lady Malfoy took hold of the portkey, and felt that familiar pull behind her navel.

* * *

Lady Malfoy appeared in the Headmaster's office, immediately removing the Chameleon Charm as Fawkes alighted his perch. The phoenix was extremely unhappy about being forced to travel via portkey, and took the opportunity to squawk his rebukes in his human's direction.

"Well, well, Narcissa," Albus began, eyes twinkling, "this is a surprise."

She offered an elegant snort. "I highly doubt that, Dumbledore. I imagine you've been expecting this for quite some time, so do me the courtesy of sparing me the twinkling eyes and the grandfatherly persona, and let's get down to business."

"Direct as always. A rare, but nonetheless appreciated, tack."

"I'm surprised you know the difference," she waspishly countered. "You're so adept at playing the master puppeteer, I doubt that half those dangling at your fingertips are even aware they're on a string."

His eyes darkened but her unnerving responsive glare indicated that she was not about to be cowed. He narrowed his gaze and subtly prodded at the outskirts of the woman's mind before she forcibly shut him out.

"How dare you!" she seethed.

"Merely an attempt to ascertain that your intentions are honorable."

She laughed uproariously. "I am not a blind Gryffindor, old man, nor a naive orphan boy; I see you for exactly what you are. I will not deny that you are at times magnanimous and generally of good character, but do not insult my intelligence by playing the beneficent benefactor. You and I both know that you care for me no further than what I can do for you. However, you should realize that, unlike Severus, I owe you nothing. You best remember that whatever comes of this meeting, my loyalties remain to myself and my child."

The Headmaster kept his face a blank mask, though he was shocked that she apparently knew Severus Snape was his spy against Lord Voldemort. What else did she know? Dumbledore sighed.

"Fine, then let's get on with it. I have a new term for which to prepare and many other matters which require my attention. You're obviously here only because you have information from which you can benefit, and you would not have approached me if you hadn't discerned that said information might also assist me."

Narcissa nodded, grateful for the loss of pretense. "How aware are you of the extent of knowledge of magic in the Muggle world, Dumbledore?"

He frowned in both curiosity and confusion, wondering where this was going. "Are you referring to knowledge in the possession of those witches and wizards not of Muggle birth?"

"I am."

"Frightfully little, I'm afraid," he admitted. "It has long been suspected, however, that Muggles must have some rudimentary grasp of the concept of magic, lest they would have been storming the gates by now and hunting us. Muggles have at their disposal any number of weapons which might seriously cripple the wizarding community. I have to believe that those in the know keep our existence hidden, if only for their own ends."

She gave a curt nod. "This is true. However, to what I am referring is the active practice of magic by Muggles who have absolutely no magical heritage as we know it, but have been imbued with power nonetheless."

His eyes widened. "You mean...?"

Again, the witch nodded, this time with more hesitancy. "I do not mean Muggleborns. There are Muggles who have magical power derived from sources not of our community, Albus. I have tonight been approached by one to whom I owe a questionable debt, who is searching for asylum for a friend."

She was adamantly opposed to disclosing to the insufferable pillock that Anyanka was, in fact, a demon.

"And this friend is one of those Muggles to whom you refer."

She debated for a moment before deciding it would be more amusing to watch the man before her squirm. "This person is apparently a Natural Occlumens, as well as being a True Seer."

She adored shock value, despite it being a rather Gryffindor tactic.

"Ridiculous!" the man exclaimed, slamming his hand on his massive desk as he rose to his feet. "True Seers are merely myth."

"As our world is to Muggles?" she asked with a raised brow. "There are forces in this world beyond either side's control, and there are a handful of people to whom those forces have blessed with gifts. A True Seer is only one instance."

"Explain."

Bristling at his imperious tone, Narcissa quickly outlined for the Headmaster a number of magical creatures which existed in the Muggle world, but of which only certain Muggles were aware, predominantly in their roles as protectors, or Champions.

"Then the person for whom asylum is sought is one of these Champions?" he queried, his elderly frame shaking slightly as he tried to reconcile this new information, knowledge which he castigated himself for not being aware. Finally he had to retake his seat.

She nodded. "True Seers are rare and their existence is often kept closely guarded, as they are hunted by others for their eyes. However, the hallmarks of the visions are even more deadly than the machinations of a Seer's enemies. The two most common are complete insanity and cerebral death."

"And the condition of this alleged Seer?"

"Currently comatose. The Muggle healers give this person little chance of survival."

"Who is this person? What do you know of them?"

"Nothing," she said. "That was part of my agreement, one for which an Unbreakable Vow was administered. All I know is that this person was born on the active Hellmouth, has been gifted - or cursed - with the visions and, before this setback, was in the service of a great Champion. Apparently, this individual is also on the road to becoming a Champion in their own right."

"What on earth is a Hellmouth?" Dumbledore roared.

Narcissa gave a weary sigh. This was going to take more time than she thought. She had honestly believed the man would have been more knowledgeable of the universe outside their insular world.

Of course, given Dumbledore's preoccupations with Grindelwald and then Voldemort, she supposed he had neither the time nor inclination to study magical matters which were not direct threats upon their own community. Still, his ignorance was offensive.

She quickly gave him a small history lesson of the true nature of this world.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore sat back in his chair, staring unabashedly at Narcissa Malfoy, absolutely gobsmacked.

If her information was correct and, for whatever reason, he had no doubt that it was, there were far more perils facing this world than he ever realized. He cursed himself for never bothering to learn all of the traditions and the history of Muggles beyond that which he felt essential to his cause, never truly deeming their struggles as congruent to those of the magical community.

He had just been handed a rather harsh blow to his ego, and an unwelcome prejudice within him had made itself known: while he respected Muggles and their right to live their lives in safety and with dignity, he had, on some level, deemed them inferior.

It was as if he were seeing the world with new eyes. True Seers and another species of vampire; Champions and Slayers; witches of both genders achieving tremendous power, though not born from that power; languages whose titles he couldn't even repeat, let alone comprehend; places of mystical convergence which were quite literally Hell on earth.

Muggles had been confronting these things since time immemorial, with no assistance from the wizarding community, who, by all accounts, had no idea what was happening outside its confines. An entire race of wizarding people who did not use wands; a people who had no institutions like Hogwarts to guide their progress and development; a people who were persecuted over a period of centuries by their own, simply because they had powers they neither understood nor could explain.

He briefly wondered what would have become of Muggleborn witches and wizards like Hermione Granger and Dean Thomas had the magical communities not developed measures by which to track protential students. Apparently, however, there were entire segments of the global population bereft of this intercession, who had been forced to hide and deal with their magic without assistance from anyone, save a handful of Muggles who guided their own.

This was deeply troubling to the Headmaster. He had made it one of his life's goals to assist all magical children with their inheritances, only to realize now he had failed miserably.

"How do you know all of this?" he weakly demanded.

Narcissa couldn't believe just how naive this man was. It was incredible and offensive.

"Know your enemy," she said. "You forget, Dumbledore, Sirius and Andromeda were the aberrants in the Noble House of Black, not me nor my sister. We were raised knowing the ways of the common and magical Muggle so that we might better understand what, or should I say whom, we were intended to fight, or better yet avoid."

She raised an eyebrow. "Our family has been studying their world for centuries, carefully taking note and avoiding those Muggles whose power is greater than our own, and there are indeed such individuals; people whose abilities even surpass those of the Dark Lord."

She paused to allow that tidbit to sink in to the doddering fool's brain.

"When Voldemort first rose to power, the family thought that his strength might be enough to rid the world of these Muggle practitioners once and for all, so that they might no longer be considered a threat. However, it was quickly realized that the Dark Lord had no real concept of magic in the world which lies outside our own. It was only luck that he never encountered a truly magical Muggle for, as they had been persecuted for eons, they would have banded together to rid the world of a megalomaniacal savant like Tom Riddle."

"You know his history? You know who Voldemort really is?" a stunned Albus whispered.

She laughed mirthlessly. "If you are questioning whether or not I know that Voldemort is simply a half-blood with delusions of grandeur and a breadth of knowledge which eclipses his rather poor reserve of innate power, then yes."

She raised a brow. "Lily wasn't the only bright witch of our age, Albus. I have made a quite a study of the Dark Lord since Lucius aligned himself with Voldemort. Bella worships power, but is at heart a sycophant. Sirius and Andromeda, as well as Nymphadora, understood exactly what Voldemort was, or perhaps I should say was not, and dedicated their lives to fighting him. Regulus learned all too late."

"And you? What of you?"

She shrugged. "Indifferent. My primary concern after giving birth was keeping my son safe; he is the heir both to the House of Malfoy and the House of Black."

He kept his face a blank mask, both surprised and pleased that she had no idea as to the contents of Sirius Black's will; hopefully, he would be there to see the shock on her face on the day it was read. He was actually rather startled she hadn't already tried to force the issue with Gringotts. Of course, the goblins would have laughed in her face, which was also something he would have enjoyed seeing.

"To that end," she continued, "I am willing to align myself with whatever power which can deliver that hope. I was thrilled when Voldemort was seemingly vanquished by an infant, but I knew I was biding time. I knew he would return and that I must have contingencies in place were Draco and I to survive."

"And now?"

"Now?" she repeated. "I believe Harry Potter has shown that he will eventually defeat Voldemort, despite your machinations and qualifying rounds. The question is one of how long this will take and the impact the war will have on our people, specifically my son.

"Most take comfort in their denial that Voldemort has not truly returned. This is a belief the Dark Lord, of course, perpetuates. While he is exceedingly vain, he is also a master strategist and he knows the value of catching people unawares. That insipid Minister's refusal to acknowledge the rebirth allowed the magical community to play right into Voldemort's hands. Perhaps it will be different now, but damage has been done."

"What is it that you want, Narcissa?" he groused, any pleasantries long since abandoned.

This woman was obviously more of a player than that for which anyone had given her credit. Her loyalties were bought, which made her incredibly dangerous, given the amount of knowledge she possessed. Knowledge translated to power, and Narcissa Malfoy would be a great coup for either side to claim as their own; unlike her sister and husband, she had never taken the Dark Mark.

He supposed he should simply be grateful that she had remained on the fence, watching from a distance, though he found her disinterest in profuse loss of life to be galling. Still, little overrode the instinct of a mother to protect her young. There were some exceptions, of course, like Lily Potter, who placed her life as substandard to that of the greater good.

Although that decision, no matter how unselfish and noble, had cost many people a great deal, and he had abetted it.

"What I want is for you to allow this person to seek amnesty at Hogwarts. They will need to be trained in all areas of magic and there is little time. Fortunately, my contact assures me that this person is exceedingly bright, much along the lines of Potter's Muggleborn witch.

"Further, this person has been actively involved in the Muggle magical world for almost five years. There are diagnostic potions of which Severus is aware that can be brewed and administered to determine the subject's potential, and in what areas they will both excel and fumble. Madam Pomfrey is the leading mediwitch in the Isles and has contacts throughout the wizarding world; if there are treatments for the damage caused by these visions, she will find them."

"Have you any idea this person's age?"

Again, she shrugged. "Not really." She paused, considering Anyanka's appearance and assumed the demon's friend was a contemporary of sorts. "I imagine, however, that they are relatively young, perhaps not much older than a seventh year. This is just an impression I got from the envoy."

"Well, what I am supposed to do with them?" he thundered. "I can't very well matriculate them at this point in their life! How am I to explain why a Muggle has suddenly come into their gifts at this late stage?"

"I have a suggestion," she purred.

"Oh, I'm quite sure you do."

* * *

It took another hour, but Narcissa finally managed to convince Dumbledore not only of the feasibility of her plan, but that any detour would be tantamount to spectacular failure.

When he seemed hesitant, she was not beneath threats and intimidation. While she was not herself a Death Eater, she nevertheless held some modicum of influence over her husband and sister, and if Dumbledore didn't act to ensure the survival of Anyanka's friend, Voldemort would. If the Dark Lord understood and craved anything, it was power, and he would take any offering, no matter how small or misunderstood, in order to achieve greater strength; he would use this Seer until her mind was shattered, and then dispose of her like rubbish.

Narcissa subtly implied that, should Dumbledore refuse, it would become common knowledge that he was implicitly involved in the death of another innocent Muggle. Further, and even more important in terms of strategy, what could Voldemort accomplish with a True Seer under his thumb?

Dumbledore kept his face an impassive mask, but inwardly marveled at her gall. He had planned for Voldemort, he had taken into account the cunning of Lucius Malfoy and the insanity of Bellatrix Lestrange, but he had never seen this woman coming. He wondered if anyone truly had. It was rare that someone or something surprised him, outside of Harry Potter, of course, and even the boy's two closest friends, but when it happened, he sat up and took notice.

"I will agree to your plan," he said evenly, "as I apparently have no other option, but I want to know what exactly you hope to get out of all of this."

She paused, unsure herself of the answer. "To have the life of myself and that of my son spared. Beyond that, I truly don't know. I'm not even sure I care."

It was a better - and more honest - answer than he had expected.

* * *

After returning to the Manor, Narcissa quickly devised a coded message to Anyanka which would be delivered in the care of a house elf purchased just for the occasion. Owl and Muggle post were out of the question, as both took too long and were too easily intercepted.

After the message was delivered, the elf would be bonded to the Seer as a servant. It was the headmaster who had devised the scheme, and Narcissa had to give credit where it was due. Nothing could be traced back to her, and house elves were under the control of no one save their masters, and no one at all if they were free. They could defend themselves if captured, and had the ability to Apparate independent of the Ministry's tracking.

Handing the letter over to the elf with the preposterous name of Serena, Narcissa watched the messenger Disapparate before retiring to her sitting room and pondering what was to come from all this.

Effectively, her role was now terminated; she had fulfilled Anyanka's request and Dumbledore would be stepping in to ensure its execution.

Still...

She knew she would do well to pay careful attention as to how Dumbledore would play this. Perhaps she had been remiss by sitting out this game. Of course, her insistence upon Harry Potter's involvement would ensure that Dumbledore wouldn't get too out of hand. She laughed silently as she considered what would happen to Dumbledore when the Potter child came into all of his powers and decided he had enough of being an old man's pawn.

Oh, she so hoped she would be there to see it!

Lady Malfoy was pleased. She had avoided the wrath of Anyanka, and therefore that of Lucius, as well, without compromising herself or Draco. Dumbledore would be sure never to discount her again, yet would constantly be on the defensive, unable to determine her next move. True, the thrill of pull over the eyes of Albus was one which would not soon die, and all the while she had kept her last secret deeply buried. If the life of a Muggle was saved in the process, so be it.

Narcissa knew her reckoning would one day come, and she would face it with the regal bearing befitting one of her station. Now all she had to do was sit back and watch it unfold.

"Check."

* * *

Harry Potter sat atop his pitiful bed in his cousin Dudley's second bedroom at Four Privet Drive in Little Whinging, Surrey.

At this time each year, for the past four years, he had the bright hope of being removed from the home of his despicable relatives and spending the last two weeks of his summer holidays with the Weasley family and his best friend, Hermione Granger. However, this year was different from those past.

It hardly seemed possible that Sirius had been gone for less than a month. Harry had given up hope that he might one day have a parent, a person who would love him as all children should be loved, who would place his welfare above everything and everyone, but now realized he hadn't completely abandoned that dream. More the pity.

Sirius Black had been his godfather, though Harry had only known of this for the past two years. Still, in those two years, he had found an inner peace which he never thought possible. It didn't matter if he didn't live with Sirius; it didn't matter than Sirius was an escaped fugitive, wrongly convicted; it didn't even matter that they hadn't know each other that well.

All that had mattered was that there was someone in the world who loved him in a way he had never before been loved; who had loved his parents and remained loyal to them and their child without question; and who had loved him as someone more than Harry Potter, a name which seemed now to have been rendered nothing more than a trademark, as if he wasn't an actual person.

But Sirius was gone now, and while intellectually Harry understood that he should move on, emotionally he was treading water. Having known the love of Sirius, he was unable to look past what might have been and accept what his life was to become, and he was too changed to go back to being The Boy Who Had Been Resigned to Being an Unloved Orphan.

Hermione and Ron tried their best in their own maddening ways. Hermione was constantly at him to discuss his feelings, to put himself out there, even though she knew he detested such idiotic forms of psychobabble and wallowing. Not that Harry was above self-pity, but he wanted it on his own terms and in his own time. Ron, as usual, was at the opposite end of the spectrum, blathering on about nothing but Quidditch and his insufferable siblings, anything but the looming elephant in the room.

Indeed, without Sirius, Harry felt as if he was drifting on a black sea devoid of light, of hope, of possibility. There was no direction but one. He had long ago accepted that his purpose in life was to fight Voldemort; he had long ago accepted that such action would most likely result in his own death.

Contrary to popular opinion, he did not have a death wish. He wanted his life, wanted it greedily, but he was under no illusions. He could die at any moment, and not necessarily at the hands of Voldemort. Perhaps if he had been raised differently, he would be flooded with the optimism of his friends and the belief in immortality to which others of his age ascribed.

Alas, he knew death and he knew it well, and frankly, it was a relief not to be encumbered by delusions of grandeur which too often accompanied his contemporaries. While his friends tried desperately to support and cheer him, it angered him beyond belief that they were so willing to dismiss reality and live in a constant state of denial.

Harry wasn't the fatalist of Hermione's accusations, but he was a realist. Since he had learned of magic and the expectations foisted upon him, Voldemort had attempted to kill him almost every year. In fact, it was the one constant in his life.

He chuckled to himself. The idea of attempted murder as being comfortably predictable was suddenly greatly amusing. Never would he have thought of Voldemort as the most stable influence in his life, but he nevertheless realized that resounding truth. His friends would have thought him daft, but he had no doubt that Sirius would have understood.

Harry also knew that, to some degree, his feelings for Sirius had moved past love and into obsessive worship. He quite well understood that Sirius was not everything he had made the man out to be. He never doubted Sirius' love and commitment, but he also knew that Sirius loved him as an extension of James and, to a lesser point, of Lily. Harry knew that Sirius had great trouble at times distinguishing him from his father, and also recognized that Sirius' time in Azkaban had a great deal to do with his conflicting emotions.

For all intents and purposes, Sirius had remained the psychological age he had been when he had first entered the wizards' prison and, for that, Harry could find no fault. After being at the mercy of the Dementors on more than one occasion, he found it remarkable that his godfather had withstood their soul-sucking presence for an astonishing twelve years.

So, yes, he knew that Sirius hadn't been perfect, but in his view, which was, he admitted, relatively narrow, he had been damned close.

There was still Remus Lupin, of course, but the werewolf was often away on missions for Dumbledore and, due to his _condition_, would never be allowed to assume custody of Harry. Still, Remus was a faithful if cautious correspondent, and the man's continued though tangential presence helped Harry tether the ephemeral connection between he, Sirius, and his parents.

Harry knew that he could go to Remus with any question, concern, or quibble, and the werewolf would always be honest and helpful, but Remus just didn't provoke the feelings within him that Sirius had. Remus was more like a favorite uncle than a father, although that was not a bad thing; it was actually very welcome.

Still, he wasn't blind to their faults. It hadn't escaped his notice that Remus had only come into contact with him after Sirius' escape and only by Dumbledore's invitation. He hadn't even acknowledged to Harry his relationship with James and Lily until long after their first meeting. Also, it was quite apparent that Remus felt indebted to Dumbledore. Harry understood this quite easily, as well as how much that debt cost when recompense was required.

As for Sirius, well, had the man been more interested in his godson than revenge, Harry might have lived an entirely different life. It wasn't that he didn't understand; he did. In fact, he probably would have done exactly what Sirius had done, and that realization frightened him. Like Sirius, he had been too rash. Like Sirius, he had acted without making an informed decision. Like Sirius, his actions had resulted in irrevocable mistakes.

Harry felt a great fondness for Remus and would always love Sirius, but he knew it was time to move out from under the shadows of the Marauders. He could no longer expect anyone to save him, so he would have to save himself.

These thoughts segued into others about the people in his life.

Harry had been pleased when Arthur and Molly Weasley had practically adopted him on first sight, and while they were wonderful people and he loved them beyond measure, Molly in particular was even more suffocating than Hermione, which might be part of the reason the two didn't get on as well as he and Ron would have liked. Molly always appeared wary around Hermione, as if the girl were trying to steal them away from her. Hermione played it off, but Harry knew how hurt she was that every year she was the only one of the Trio not to be gifted at Christmas with a Weasley jumper created.

Then there was Molly's rather unsubtle attempts to put him together with Ginny. Harry liked Ginny a great deal, but as for love, his feelings for her would never go beyond sisterly. He knew both Molly and Ginny were hoping for more, but he had realized last year that was never to be.

And, then of course, there were the Weasley brothers: Bill, Charlie, and the twins, Fred and George, all of whom, at one time or another, he had felt, well, less than brotherly toward, except of course for Percy, who only appeared in Harry's fantasies pleading for his miserable life while being slowly roasted on an open spit.

In fact, it was one of the reasons he so dreadfully missed Sirius. While he had allowed his latent affection for Cedric to be transferred to the boy's bereaved girlfriend, Cho Chang, Harry had never been comfortable with the awkward moments which had comprised their brittle relationship. He had entered it knowing that Cho's interest in him was greatly motivated by her fervent desire to grasp close the memory of Cedric, for which he couldn't condemn her; he had, after all, been using her for the same reason.

He sighed wistfully. "Cedric really was quite lovely."

He suspected that Remus knew, but the man was simply too polite and too respectful to pry. Too, Harry often wondered just how close the relationship between the werewolf and Sirius had been. He also believed that Hermione knew about his orientation, even if only on an unconscious level, but, for whatever reason, was reticent to discuss them, for which he was absurdly grateful. He loved Hermione more than anyone in the world, except Ron, and in some ways, even more than Ron, but his desire to sleep with men was not high on Harry's list of Things To Discuss With Hermione Granger.

His one saving grace had been his deepening friendship with Ravenclaw student Luna Lovegood.

Their relationship had taken him by surprise - of course, Luna took everyone by surprise - as he had once dismissed her out-of-turn as being nothing more than a younger version of Professor Trelawney. Luna seemed to be perpetually blustering about in a fugue state, but when she allowed her carefully-crafted veil to fall, she was startlingly astute and actually quite comforting, as well as rather frightening.

Boy Who Lived or not, prophecy or not, scar or not, Harry Potter _never_ wanted to find himself on the opposite end of Luna Lovegood's wand.

He supposed his change of heart toward Luna began when she revealed that she was able to see the thestrals which drew the carriages of students toward Hogwarts at the start of each term. Over the course of his fifth year, Luna had proven herself to be an exceptionally capable witch whose knowledge occasionally surpassed even that of Hermione, which was an endless source of consternation to the older girl.

Luna had also shown herself to be an incredibly dedicated friend who made no demands and was there unquestioningly at his side. She supported Gryffindor in Quidditch matches which did not pair his team against her own house, and she stood up to all of the people in her year and Harry's, defending him at no small cost to herself, not that Luna cared one whit about what anyone thought of her. Harry was quite awed by that.

They had spent the summer so far writing daily to each other, and he felt a little tingle in his stomach whenever he saw Luna's owl, Celesta, approaching his window. He poured his heart out in his letters, freely grieving for his parents, Cedric, and Sirius; Luna responded with her own feelings about her mother's death and her own resulting fierce devotion to her father, which further resolved Harry to speak with Hermione about her constant slurs against _The Quibbler_, a wizarding magazine published by Mister Lovegood.

Harry revealed his sexuality; Luna vowed to get him laid. He fretted about his friends' reaction and Luna offered to pretend to be his girlfriend if it would make things easier. He wrote of his uncertainty with regard to the final battle with Voldemort, and Luna replied that, while no outcome was certain, she believed Harry would triumph not because of a scar or a prophecy, but because he was Harry.

Not Harry Potter, not the Boy Who Lived, but Harry.

Luna made him happy. He never had to be _on_ with her, for she had no expectations of him. He didn't have to tiptoe around her as he did Ron, for she held no jealousy. He didn't have to endlessly debate and justify his every thought and feeling as he did with Hermione, for Luna valued the privacy of introspection.

In the wake of Sirius' death and Voldemort's increasing rise to power, Luna Lovegood was one of the singular things Harry was looking forward to as the fall term approached. Still, he worried over Ron and Hermione's reaction to this new relationship. Ron was instinctively envious of anything of Harry's which didn't include him, and he thought Luna bizarre; Hermione resented that Luna was as smart as she, but was so impractical and flighty.

He loved Hermione and Ron more than anyone else in the world, but he was growing more and more tired of constantly trying to prove himself worthy of their friendship, when they themselves often said and did things which hurt him greatly. Granted, Hermione seemed to cotton on to her mistakes rather quickly and always apologized, usually with sincere tears ringing her eyes, but Ron often needed to be hit over the head before realization dawned.

Still, Harry wouldn't trade them for anything, and no one would ever be as close to him or know him as well as they. If he believed in the idea of soul-mates, he knew he had two, and knew he was lucky to have found them so early. He sincerely hoped and prayed that the tension between them now was simply a phase which would soon die away.

There were other concerns, however, things which he had allowed himself to disregard for far too long, inconsistencies which plagued him. The more he thought of his enforced confinement with the Dursleys, the more he began to suspect that the entire plot was a contrivance of Dumbledore's.

The Headmaster had insisted that Lily's sacrifice had imbued Harry with blood magic which would protect him from Voldemort as long as he resided with his mother's family. As skilled as Lily was purported to have been in Charms, Harry was beginning to doubt that she would resort to something so drastic, even if other options were sparse.

From what little information he had been able to gather about his mother from Petunia, she and her sister had enjoyed almost no contact after Lily began Hogwarts. Would a loving mother so willingly sacrifice her own life for that of her only child, only to condemn that child to be raised by people who wouldn't understand him and have no desire to? He doubted it.

Further, Dumbledore had said that the blood magic would ensure protection as long as Harry considered Four Privet Drive his home. The obvious flaw was that he didn't, and never had. To him, it was nothing more than a house and nothing less than a prison. If anything, he considered Hogwarts or the Burrow to be his home, once he learned what a proper home was supposed to be.

But how to know for sure? Could he check the wards? Would they somehow respond to him?

Until last year during the Tournament, Voldemort hadn't a physical body and had been unable to contact his followers, most likely because he knew the majority wouldn't answer to a spirit or a disembodied whatsit, so therefore he could have never previously attacked the Dursleys, and the Death Eaters were unlikely to act on their own. Also, it was apparent that while Voldemort was half-Muggle, he had no clue as to how the Muggle world operated, and it was doubtful he could have found him even had he looked.

More troubling was that Harry had nothing other than Dumbledore's word that his parents had indeed wanted him left with the Dursleys. He had never examined his parents' will and was not even sure they had created one. He rather believed they had, though, because they had known of the prophecy and had known that they in particular would have been targeted. It made no sense that they wouldn't have instituted provisions for his safety were they to perish, especially considering they had bequeathed to him a vault, knowing he would attend Hogwarts as soon as he was of age.

However, his primary concern was the nature of the blood magic itself. It had saved him in his first year at Hogwarts when he had been fighting Quirrell, but he failed to see how whatever lingering trace he might possess could be dangerous to Voldemort _now_, since the bastard had been resurrected with Harry's own blood. If Voldemort was running amok with Harry's blood coursing through his veins, didn't it stand to reason that Lily's spell now protected Voldemort from Harry as well?

Shared blood, shared wands. What possible advantage was left to Harry? Love? He snorted. Is that what he was supposed to give to the surviving families of those who had been slaughtered by Voldemort and his minions? Love?

This troubled him deeply, and he knew discussing it with Dumbledore would be pointless.

And there were other concerns, most of which pertained to Sirius and his death. Harry knew that, as the man's godson, he was most likely Sirius' heir, given that he had no children. How could he go about clearing Sirius' name once and for all? He knew he would have no rest until that was accomplished, or at least until he had ready a plan of attack. And if he was the heir, did that mean he was now in control of Grimmauld Place?

No, something was wrong. Even more things were being hidden from him, and Dumbledore was counting on his continued acquiescence. Well, no more.

Also bothering him this night was a niggling thought needling at him, that there was someone coming, someone new whom he instinctively understood would change his life in a profound way.

He was unsure if it would be for the better, but he suspected it would be enlightening. He could have owled Dumbledore, of course, but lately thoughts of his Headmaster were more troubling and infuriating than comforting. Harry was beginning to feel more like Dumbledore's weapon than part of his army, and truthfully, his fifth year had disabused him of the notion that Dumbledore was either omniscient or omnipotent.

Why should he settle for being part of Dumbledore's army when it was he himself who would have to battle Voldemort in the end? Why we was he allowing Dumbledore to dictate the terms? Enough of that!

If Dumbledore had been powerful enough to defeat Voldemort, he would have, prophecy or not, especially in light of the fact that the prophecy had been made several years after the beginning of the First War, before Harry had even been born. Logically, didn't it stand to reason that Dumbledore could have done away with Voldemort in that window before the prophecy had been pronounced?

There was more, he was sure, things of which he had taken notice over the years, but had suppressed either by choice or need. Even now, so many thoughts were swirling about his head, his very mind ached. He simply couldn't process them right now, preferring instead to do what he could while he thought of it, most of all concerning a strange sensation that something vaguely unsettling and new was about to exert its influence in his life.

Struck with an idea, Harry called out for Dobby and hoped the elf would hear him.

He instantly appeared, nearly sobbing at being summoned by the Great Harry Potter.

"How can Dobby be of assistance to Mister Harry Potter?" the elf wailed, prostrating himself on the floor.

Harry sighed and rolled his eyes. Honestly, Dobby's behavior had surpassed annoying quite a while ago and was now bordering on bothersome; not to mention the angry glares Hermione sent his way whenever he encountered the elf on school grounds, when Dobby would all but throw a parade to herald his arrival.

"Dobby," he began with forced patience, "first, could you please erect silencing wards throughout the room? I don't wish to have my relatives overhear our conversation."

The elf nodded and began winding his fingers in precise, orchestrated movements. Harry was rather awed by the sight of this magic and the feeling it inspired within him, so different from his own power. Why had he never noticed this before? He cleared his throat once Dobby was finished.

"Have you been at Hogwarts all summer?"

The elf nodded frantically, which caused the tea cozy he wore as a hat to slip off his head. Quickly scooping it up off the floor, he trained wide, unblinking eyes on the boy.

"Now, Dobby," Harry continued, unsure as how to phrase the question, "I know that you are loyal to Dumbledore, but there's some information I need. Can I ask you a question and, if he interrogates you, can you not reveal to him that we had this conversation? And I do not want you punishing yourself whatever the answer or outcome, is that clear?"

Again, the elf nodded. "Dobby likes Dumbly, Mister Harry Potter, but Dobby is a free elf! Dobby has no master to fear, thanks to the greatness of Harry Potter! Dobby wants to help Harry Potter any way he can, he does!"

Harry sighed again and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Dobby, I've been feeling a bit odd these past few days, and I think something...strange...is going on. Has anything abnormal been going on at the school?"

The elf frowned and considered the question. "No, Harry Potter, sir. Nothing that Dobby can remember."

Harry was dejected.

"But," Dobby continued, "Winky told Dobby that Dumbly had a surprise guest earlier tonight who left Dumbly very upset."

"Who was it?"

"Dobby does not know, sir. Winky said Dobby should know, but Dobby does not understand Winky. Winky drinks too much, Harry Potter. But all the house elves felt it when the guest arrived."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean you felt it?"

"Guest used a portkey, they did."

The boy was stunned. Portkeys were not supposed to work at Hogwarts, just like it was supposedly impossible for anyone to Apparate onto the grounds or into the school. Of course, he too well recalled a portkey that had once made its way onto the premises. One which had cost him his blood and Cedric his life.

_Kill the spare_.

Harry shivered, but the dank chill remained. He knew he would never forget that high-pitched voice sneering at Cedric's beautiful and terrified face. Such a waste. Such a terrible waste.

Oh, Pettigrew would pay.

Harry's eyes looked both pained and vengeful, and Dobby instantly blamed himself as he began slamming his head against the floor.

"Dobby! Dobby, stop that this instant! I am not angry with you, and you did nothing wrong! Now knock it off, or I'm going to send Hermione down to the kitchens every night once the new term starts!"

Dobby's eyes grew impossibly larger at the threat. But he did stop.

"I have a favor to request of you, Dobby," Harry whispered.

The elf's widened to the size of basketballs. "Harry Potter be asking a lowly house elf for favor? Harry Potter is too kind!"

"You're my friend, Dobby, not my elf."

Said elf predictably burst into tears, but Harry understood that these tears came from a different place than those previous. He knew all too well what it was to be an abused creature with no friends. Dobby then finally nodded that he was ready to comply.

"I need you to deliver a few letters for me."

Hearing this, Hedwig alighted from her perch and dived at the elf, angrily screeching.

"Hedwig!" Harry shouted. "Leave Dobby alone! I will have letters for you, as well, but I believe Dumbledore might be tracking your movements. I can't afford him to discover my plans until I want him to."

The owl paused and considered his words, realizing they made sense. Giving him a reproachful glare, she hooted softly and settled on the headboard of the bed.

"Thank you," Harry sighed. "Dobby," he said, turning toward the elf, "please forgive Hedwig. She's very protective of and loyal to me."

"Harry Potter has a most powerful familiar," Dobby whispered, giving Hedwig a respectful look.

The owl sleepily hooted and acknowledged him with a quick bow of her head.

Harry frowned. Familiar? Well, that was certainly something to explore. He penned a few letters, some of which were quite long, and Dobby contented himself by glancing about the small room, deeming it entirely unsuitable and unworthy of his good friend Harry Potter. When he sensed Harry was finished with his letters, Dobby quickly cast a spell to charm the ink dry.

"Thank you for all of your help, Dobby. You don't know what it means to me. I would appreciate it if you told no one we had this conversation, or about these letters. Please don't bother to wait for responses, but also please inform the recipients that, if they wish, they can send a reply to me in care of the twins." The elf bobbed his head. "I look forward to seeing you in September, and thank you again."

Dobby took a moment to consider things before he reacted. Harry Potter had called him his friend and had paid him courtesy simply because he felt it right, not because the wizard pitied him. The elf also realized that Harry no longer trusted Dumbledore, and while that confused him, he nevertheless determined to keep a closer eye on the Headmaster.

He then began bowing and extolling the virtues of Harry Potter, and the boy supposed he should have been grateful that the elf wasn't blowing kisses. After one more final bow, Dobby Disapparated.

Harry's mind raced. A surprise guest who had upset Dumbledore and had arrived by portkey? He assumed that Dumbledore had either created or sanctioned the portkey, for it would not have worked otherwise. But who was the guest? Winky apparently thought it was someone Dobby should know, but that could quite be anyone in wizarding Britain.

As Dobby had once been owned by the Malfoys, one of the premier Pureblood families in Europe, he had been made aware of all visitors to the Manor. Since beginning his employ at Hogwarts, Dobby was now familiar with all of the students and staff. The mysterious guest could literally have been anyone.

He needed help with this, and as much as he knew that his best bet would be Hermione, he wasn't going to involve her. She didn't like him to question Dumbledore, and he knew his recent doubts about the Headmaster's intentions would most likely cause her either to dismiss him out of hand, or go barking mad and confront the old man directly.

Honestly, he would have emptied his vault to see that confrontation, and all of his money would have been laid on Hermione's triumph.

The one thing he recognized above any other was that he had to start taking control of his life instead of ceding it to others, no matter how well-intentioned they might have been. The problem was that he didn't know where to begin. Hopefully, the letters he had just written would help him on that score. For the moment, and for the foreseeable future, he was more than content to keep Dumbledore in the dark for as long as possible, even knowing how exceedingly difficult that would be, especially once he returned to Hogwarts.

Thus, he would have to start small. Since he was going back to school anyway, Harry decided it was time that he made full use of its available resources. He couldn't allow himself to be distracted any further by the musical chairs-cum-relationships of his friends, his rivalry with Draco Malfoy, his hatred for Snape, his love for Quidditch, or sneaking about the castle at night.

He wouldn't allow himself to wallow in self-pity, or fret about prophecies, or become so mired in grief over those lives lost that he inadvertently allowed Voldemort to breach his shields or possess him again. He knew it would be difficult, and he knew that his behavior would hurt his friends, but as much as that bothered him, it didn't eclipse the realization that it was time for him to begin making his own plans.

If he was going to win this war, he needed knowledge, born both from learning and experience. It was time he stopped playing by everyone else's rules and start making his own. If he wanted to be treated as an adult, he needed to behave like one. In that instant, he resolved to suck it up and start dictating his own life rather than allowing himself to be controlled by everyone else.

It would likely be met with incredulity, perhaps even outright hostility, but he knew he had to stop his waffling and dedicate himself to a path of his own choosing. He had allowed this nonsense to go on for too long, and thus had more than his share of blame in how it had all devolved into a mass of gross stupidity. He had submitted to Dumbledore's machinations, but now Harry Potter was going to take a page right out of McGonagall's book and do what needed to be done, regardless of anyone's misgivings.

Right. But where to begin? Well, the letters he had entrusted to Dobby were a start, but he couldn't count on receiving the help for which he had asked. Thus, it was necessary to explore other avenues.

He crossed the room to his desk and quickly withdrew his quill and two pieces of parchment. He sketched a couple of brief notes, and tied them to Hedwig's leg which she held out seemingly under protest until Harry stroked her feathers, gave her an owl treat, and cooed the appropriate affections. His owl was downright obnoxious, but damn if he didn't adore her.

"I'll be going out in a few days, okay, girl? You deserve a vacation as well, so after you deliver these go visit your friends at the Owlery or the Forest." Harry paused for a moment. "I love you, Hedwig," he whispered. "You're the only one in my life who has never disappointed me, the only one I can count on with no reservations. Please stay safe."

Hedwig softly hooted, lovingly nipped his fingers, and then shot out the open window.

He sat, watching her until she disappeared from sight, before a feeling of empowerment washed over him. Hermione might indeed be the brightest witch of her age, but when it came to a genius capable of thinking outside the box, Harry knew his brightest hope was a Ravenclaw.

* * *

The snowy white owl decided to deliver her master's letter to the Lovegood witch first, as the girl would stroke Hedwig's feathers and croon to her, in addition to the exotic owl treats she insisted the bird take. Then she would fly to the school and give that horrid Dumbledore his letter.

She worried about her Harry. He was so sad, and he didn't read any of the letters delivered by her owl friends, save those brought by Celesta. When the others were delivered, their bearers - especially that dreadful pygmy infant Pigwidgeon - would cluck at her, fretting over Harry's apparent disinterest in life. Hedwig didn't know what to tell them, for she didn't understand it either.

Tonight, however, she had seen a brief flicker of the fire which had once burned brightly in her boy's eyes. She just hoped he would be able to sustain it.

* * *

Late that evening, Dumbledore was awakened by a rather shrill squawk outside his window. He had advised Harry that any time he needed to make a private communication, he had merely to send Hedwig to his quarters.

"Good evening, lady," he greeted the owl.

In response, she blinked at him and thrust out her leg, a silent demand to relieve her of her burden.

"You don't much care for me, do you?" he asked, eyes twinkling.

Hedwig hooted a scathing reply and flew away.

"No," he said sadly. "I don't imagine your master does either, at this point."

He gently ripped open the envelope and began reading, his smile widening with every word.

_Dear Headmaster,_

_I wish to inform you that I will be visiting Diagon Alley three days hence to purchase some additional supplies for the coming term before leaving for the Burrow. Luna Lovegood will be accompanying. I imagine that you will wish to send Aurors to guard me, as Lucius Malfoy is still running amok, sneering at people and preening over his hair. I ask only that you specifically request Tonks; anyone she chooses to bring with her is acceptable. The Weasleys will be taking myself and Hermione Granger for the usual accoutrements prior to the start of classes._

_I also wish to discuss with you and Professor McGonagall my classes for the Fall term. Miss Lovegood and I will take the Knight Bus to Hogsmeade and Floo you upon our arrival._

_Signed,_  
_Harry Potter_

"So," Dumbledore chortled, "you have dispensed with informality, have you, Harry? Well, good for you! I sense great change on the wind. You are quite angry with me, Harry, and rightfully so, but I have done what I've done because I believe my choices to be the best ones for all those involved." He sighed. "I can only pray you will one day see that."

He bowed his head. "I can only pray that my decisions have been wise ones, yet I fear they have not.

"As for Miss Lovegood," he continued, "she will be a great boon to Harry." He nodded. "Yes, this is most pleasing indeed."

* * *

Hermione Granger was in her bedroom at her parents' house in Ealing, packing the remainder of her belongings which she would be taking to the Burrow and then on to Hogwarts. She was leaving for Ron's house several weeks earlier than originally planned, but they had a lot of work to do. She hadn't been this nervous since the first time she had boarded the Express to school at the start of her first year.

It should have been different now. She was the smartest girl in her class, a Prefect, and she had two best friends: Ronald Weasley and Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. She had come so far in the magical world, farther than she had ever dreamed possible, but she had learned long ago there was a price for happiness and a cost for triumph. Still, she thought she was done proving herself.

However, she was forced to admit that the bonds linking her with Ron and Harry had weakened considerably over the summer. Well, had she been honest with herself, those tethers had begun unraveling during their fourth year at Hogwarts, due to that blasted tournament. Harry was understandably depressed about Sirius' death, but he had slipped into absolute despair, she was sure. He was avoiding all contact with her and Ron, but Hermione nevertheless felt that he was receiving comfort from someone, most likely Dumbledore or Ginny Weasley.

She threw herself on her bed and pouted miserably.

There was something Harry was hiding, and it just about killed her because he always told her everything. Of course, she was well aware that she had an annoying tendency to blow things out of proportion and drive him batty with her incessant questioning, but she thought he had understood that she did those things because she loved and worried about him.

Now, though, she was beginning to realize that her pompous bravado, little more than a cover for rather deep-seated insecurities, was beginning to drive him away. Hermione didn't believe she would survive school, let alone life, if she permanently alienated him. She'd rather surrender herself to Voldemort than lose Harry's friendship.

She was also confused by her feelings for Ron.

Intellectually, she realized that Harry was much better suited to her. He was gloriously handsome, at least she thought so, although Harry refused even to consider the possibility, and was more intelligent than that for which he would give himself credit. While he had quite a temper, it only exploded in moments of severe stress, usually when people he loved were threatened. Ron, conversely, flew off the handle with the slightest provocation and was ridiculously jealous of Harry for things which should not inspire envy in anyone.

She snorted. Ronald Weasley was, she felt, at times, the stupidest person on the face of the planet. Why should someone be jealous of a baby from whom a killing curse rebounded? It wasn't as if it Harry had defeated Voldemort intentionally, and he had lost his parents in the process. He was horribly abused by his relatives; abuse which, Hermione was sure, ran much deeper than Harry would ever willingly admit. Harry had been forced to kill Professor Quirrell, which was no great loss to anyone, and continuously blamed himself for the death of Cedric Diggory, which was no one's fault but that of Voldemort and his toady, Peter Pettigrew.

The students at Hogwarts reacted to Harry only in extremes: they were profoundly grateful every time he saved the world, but the moment any aspect of Harry's behavior was called into question, that gratitude was abandoned in favor of unrighteous indignation. Hell, Ron was even jealous that Harry had been the one to save Ginny from Tom Riddle, forgetting that in order to do so, Harry had to face the darkest wizard who ever lived and had been almost killed by a basilisk!

The Triwizard Tournament had almost been the breaking point for Hermione. Ron had foolishly insisted that Harry had submitted his name into the Goblet of Fire, despite the fact that he had never been able to come up with a valid reason for how Harry had supposedly managed to bypass all the charms and wards on the cup to make his entry. It was only after Harry narrowly defeated a dragon that Ron had come around, but he had never adequately apologized to Harry as far as she was concerned.

Harry had let him off easily; she would have made Ron grovel for an obscene length of time. Then, Ron had been declared the person whom Harry would most miss, and Harry didn't even blink an eye in rushing off to save him, also saving the life of Gabrielle Delacour in the process.

Well, if she were truthful, she was still incredibly hurt that Ron had been the person whom Harry would most miss and that she was not, especially after she had been the only one to remain loyal to him during the entire debacle. The fact that she had been selected for Viktor Krum was of little comfort, for she felt nothing for him other than a passing attraction, driven partly by her need to show up Ron as the insensitive prat he was.

"Hermione," she simpered, "_you're_ a girl." She scowled. "Honestly! The boy is a cretin!"

But as annoying as Ron could be, she knew that his heart was so huge it eclipsed his other faults. Not to the point where they could be forgotten, of course, but enough to dwindle their effects. No matter the circumstances, no matter how churlish Ron might act when he believed he had been wronged - mistakenly or not - he would always come through for his friends.

It was greatly aggrieving, however, that he was so utterly clueless about her feelings for him. She knew he liked her, but he was too scared to make a move. Harry was absolutely maddening, just sitting back to watch the sparks fly, but always stepping in to put out the resulting fires before they could burn out of control.

It was growing more and more difficult to be in the company of her two best friends; Ron called out to her body, Harry to her soul. Further, she suspected that her feelings for Harry were also shared by Ron. If it came down to mortal peril, she would choose to save Harry over Ron, and she knew Ron would choose Harry over her.

She felt guilty that this revelation didn't make her feel guilty enough. Harry wouldn't understand, because she and Ron knew that he would save both of them or die trying. She wondered if the reason she and Ron were taking so long to get together was that each was waiting for Harry to pick one of them, all the while knowing he never would.

Her feelings for both boys were becoming more confused. Despite the current distance, they were closer than they had ever been, a closeness she knew was both envied and despised by the rest of the school. The rumors had started in their fourth year and had picked up a lot of steam in their fifth. When they returned in two months time, prying eyes would zero in on their newfound awkwardness with each other and tongues would begin wagging before the train even pulled into the station.

She wasn't sure what Harry and Ron felt about each other, besides a deep, abiding friendship. It wasn't that she thought that were gay or bisexual or whatsit, but that they were simply Harry and Ron. She knew of girls in school who had such close friendships, including her own roommates Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, but those relationships were, for whatever reason, deemed acceptable.

But Hermione had recently noticed that Ron and Harry kept more of a physical distance between them than they had in years past. They used to sling their arms over each other's shoulders and would often hug, uncaring of whom was watching, but now they settled for a quick, firm handshake, a clap on the shoulder, or a nod of the head. This made her sad, and she worried what would happen to the three of them if her boys grew even further apart.

Although, she now realized, she wasn't exactly correct. More often than not, it had been Ron who had initiated the hugs with Harry, and the other boy merely complied. It was something about which none of them spoke, but she and Ron had caught on fairly early in first year that Harry did not like to be touched. He would consent with his two best friends, but only if he saw the gesture forthcoming. If he was taken by surprise, he would startle and become visibly shaken. He would throw it off almost immediately, but they had seen it far too often to dismiss it as sheer coincidence.

Ron, coming from a huge and loving family, had simply decided that this behavior meant they should be more affectionate with Harry, as he was obviously starved, but Hermione was less sure. It was apparent that Harry was uncomfortable in these situations. He would allow her, as well as Molly Weasley, to touch him, but she suspected that this had more to do with Harry being unable to think of a way to extricate himself from the Molly's embraces without hurting her feelings.

He grew more tolerant of Ron as the three grew closer, because Harry understood that Ron would never intentionally physically harm him, but the reticence was there with everyone else, even Dumbledore. When the Headmaster would lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, she would see a slight tremor shoot throughout his body, but if Dumbledore had ever noticed, he had made no mention and continued the behavior.

Harry had been more relaxed with Sirius, but Hermione believed it was because Sirius was the last tangible connection to Harry's parents. Remus didn't count, because he, too, often eschewed personal contact; whether this was his own peccadillo or if it was that he was simply respectful of Harry, she was unsure.

The Dursleys. Everything always came back to them.

What the hell had happened to Harry in that house, and was it still going on?

One day, she would discover all and, rules or not, she would make them pay. It might have been selfish, but her boys were all she had, save her parents. She had other friends, but none who meant anything approaching what Harry and Ron meant. So she would do whatever it took to strengthen their bond, and when Hermione Granger committed herself to something, woe to those who would try and stop her.

And then there were the times that Hermione believed Harry was terrified he would succeed and defeat Voldemort. What would become of the Boy Who Lived to Triumph, and how many lives would be lost or irrevocably altered in the process? How would Harry cope with that, if he coped at all? She wouldn't put it past him to try and steal away in the night and never speak to any of them again.

She rolled over on her back and sighed wearily as she stared up at the ceiling.

Everything was such a mess. Harry was sullen and withdrawn, Ron was hopelessly naive and forever pouting, and she herself was becoming more and more obsessed with the idea of trying to scheme to bind both boys to her permanently.

She knew the upcoming six weeks at the Burrow were going to be sheer hell. Molly would coddle Harry and, while Hermione knew on some level that he desperately enjoyed it, it would only be a matter of time before he grew tired of the attention and withdrew even further. Ron, of course, got obscenely envious when Molly was affectionate toward Harry, despite knowing that Harry never had any maternal figure.

And it wasn't like she and Molly were on the greatest of terms. The Weasley matriarch had been exceedingly friendly in the first three years that she, Harry, and Ron had been friends, but after their fourth year and those ridiculous rumors purported by Rita Skeeter, Molly had cooled considerably toward her. Hermione believed the woman had deluded herself into thinking they were locked in a battle of wills over Harry and Ron, which was patently inane.

She exhaled forcefully.

It wasn't as if the rest of the Weasley family would make it any easier. While she loved each and every one of them dearly, regarding all, even Molly, though not Percy, as her second family, they really pushed the boundaries of she and Harry's sanity and patience.

As soon as they arrived, Arthur Weasley would immediately assault them with questions and half-baked theories about Muggle inventions. The mischief of the twins, Fred and George, was one of the few things which could pull Harry out of a funk, but the twins often took it too far by humiliating Ron, which inevitably hurt and angered Harry, and Hermione thought their antics childish. She considered Ginny a good friend, but knew the younger girl had designs on Harry and viewed her as an obstacle in claiming her trophy.

"Weasley women," she savagely mumbled.

Bill and Charlie were great guys, but they no longer lived at the Burrow. Bill had returned from Egypt and had taken a flat in Diagon Alley, working as a curse breaker for Gringotts, and Charlie made his home on a dragon reservation in Romania. Besides, despite the things she, Ron, and Harry had accomplished together, Bill and Charlie still saw Ron only as a little brother, and lumped she and Harry along with him.

Except Hermione had noticed that Charlie had been looking at Harry differently last Christmas, but she was still unable to discern precisely the change.

As for Percy...

"Git," she hissed.

She felt safe freeing her wrath against Percy Weasley in private, where she could curse his stupid arse without worrying about hurting Ron's feelings. Whatever Percy had done - and despite turning his back on his family and thoroughly, maliciously attacking Harry for no good reason - he _was_ still Ron's brother, and she knew her friend was sensitive to that fact. Both she and Harry would let Ron prattle on incessantly about his scorn for his older sibling, but whenever they tried to join in, each noticed how Ron would tense. He would never say anything, for he knew that both of them, Harry in particular, had reason to hate Percy, but they knew it upset him.

So she and Harry let Ron ramble uninterrupted, and when they were alone together or separately, they indulged in quite a bit of Percy-bashing, which both found exhilarating and healthy.

Of course, part of her worried that sometimes she came more across like Percy than she intended, and she could tell from the looks in Harry and Ron's eyes that they thought the same, so she had been trying to rein herself in somewhat. It helped in the short-term, but the longer she held it in, the worse the explosion when released.

She prayed that she would never and could never turn out like Percy, more interested in personal advancement than the concerns of her family and friends, but she couldn't deny the parallels between them: both were Gryffindors; like she herself, Percy had been the best student of his class; Percy had been a Prefect as she was; and Hermione was almost positive that she would next year be named Head Girl, as Percy had been Head Boy.

She didn't have his political ambitions, as she was more inclined to follow McGonagall and teach at Hogwarts once she got her Mastery in Transfiguration, but she fretted nonetheless. She counted on Ron and Harry to keep her in line, though she would never admit it, and grew annoyed when they did just that. Still, she hoped they would never give up on her.

Hermione had a terrible sense of foreboding.

Something was coming.

* * *

Ron Weasley was moping around the Burrow's makeshift Quidditch pitch.

Fred, George, and Ginny were aloft their brooms, practicing the game, though the twins had no real reason as they had effectively quit their house team when they had dropped out of Hogwarts. Molly's furor at that impromptu decision had been a sight to behold and, for a moment, Ron thought he might escape her wrath. Molly, however, felt quite content to release her rancor in the direction of anyone who happened to walk through the Dutch door into the kitchen.

One of the reasons he was so looking forward to Harry's visit was that his best friend had the unparalleled ability to quell her rage. While she would still issue dire warnings and reprisals for Fred and George's decision, Harry's presence would take some of the venom out of her barbs.

Ron was confused. This was different from his generalized state of confusion, however, in that he was unable to qualify his feelings for his two best friends. He was fairly certain he was in love with Hermione, insofar as he understood what love was, and he thought she might like him too, in that way, but he could never really tell. Except for irritation, she had an uncanny knack for hiding her true feelings about things and people.

Of course, this also caused him to question her feelings for Harry, and he was terrified of the answer; too, he was discomfited by the idea of more closely examining his own feelings for Harry. Regardless, it still made him feel quite light and fluffy that he was Harry's 'Wheezy'.

Something had changed between the three of them after that night in the Department of Mysteries. There had been a fundamental shift when those accursed brains had touched him. There had been another shift when Antonin Dolohov had attacked Hermione, and Ron and Harry had each felt something within them die, only to be replaced with a rage so bright it burned. There was a third shift when Harry had cast the Cruciatus curse on Bellatrix Lestrange, even though the evil bitch had deserved it and more. In fact, Harry's possession by Voldemort was secondary to those events, and Ron was left to ponder the implications of it all.

The brains had somehow altered him. He wasn't sure what it was. Sometimes he thought they had made him different, turning him into something other than he was; at other times, he believed they had amplified something already within him. All he knew for certain were the scars which now littered his arms. They were faint, but they hummed with an energy which was not his own. He wondered if Harry had the same experience with his scar, the visible one. There were other scars, ones Ron couldn't see, ones Harry wouldn't allow him to see, and not just the physical ones.

As for Bellatrix, the moment Harry tried to cast that curse, Ron finally understood that in order to defeat Voldemort, Harry would have to kill. He had known this all along, of course, at least in some context which he had been unable or unwilling to define. That night, however, he had realized that not only was Harry expected to kill, but that he _would_ kill.

Harry was powerful, so powerful it was terrifying; that the curse had worked at all was testament to that. Ron had dismissed the legend of Harry Potter soon after meeting him almost six years ago, but now he understood that the reputation of the Boy Who Lived was well and truly deserved. Harry might be the Champion of the Light, but at his core was a chilling darkness which Ron didn't understand and wasn't sure he wanted to.

Harry was isolating himself. Once upon a time, Ron had pitied him for being locked away, alone, every summer with his relatives, but now he realized Harry always cast himself adrift, even at school. He was closer with Ron himself and Hermione than with anyone, but he only let them so close. It was frustrating to no end, and he wondered how much of Harry's isolation was caused by circumstances and how much was by choice. If Hermione's letters were any indication, she was having similar thoughts.

Both he and Hermione had been owling Harry all summer, but none of their letters had received replies. He would spend a portion of every day watching the skies, waiting for Hedwig to swoop in with the letter which would finally answer some of his more burning questions, but he had realized long ago, however, that Harry would answer questions in his own time and the more people pushed, the more Harry withdrew.

Ron was constantly assaulted with questions from his well-meaning, if slightly maniacal, family. Not a day passed where both his parents and his siblings asked if he had heard from Harry; even Bill and Charlie were wondering about the boy's condition. All the querying did, however, was reinforce Ron's sense of abandonment. He was positive Harry wasn't reading either his or Hermione's letters; if he was, he would have sent a reply, no matter how cursory. That no reply was forthcoming indicated that Harry couldn't be bothered. Still, the fact that the letters had been delivered indicated Harry was reasonably well, and at least he hadn't returned them unopened.

He couldn't imagine what Harry was going through. He thought if he tried, he might go mad or break down in tears, and his heart ached for his best friend. Being forced to live with the Dursleys, the death of Sirius. Ron knew as well that Harry was still haunted by Cedric's death and probably always would be. There had been some nights at Hogwarts when Harry had forgotten to cast silencing charms on his bed, and in the throes of his recurring nightmares, it was almost always Cedric for whom Harry screamed.

He was sure Harry was regretting his attempt at a relationship with Cho Chang. The more Ron thought about the Ravenclaw, the more he despised her. She had played with Harry's emotions to satisfy some macabre desire to get closer to a ghost. She had known Harry was attracted to her and had used him for her own ends. Hermione had hypothesized as much, going so far as to call Chang a hateful bitch, and Ron had agreed fully with her, itself indeed a rare event.

Hermione was so much better with feelings. A lot of people would have been surprised that she was quite capable of determining answers without a trip to the library, but he knew that her intellectual intelligence was rivaled by an emotional one. She was somehow always able to pick through Harry's barriers and discern what he was feeling, but Harry often refused to acknowledge her adept conclusions, or even her efforts. Of course, she did have a tendency to talk people to death, trying to reason with them, but he understood that when it came to emotions, there was no reasoning.

There was just feeling, and right now, all Harry was feeling was pain.

Ron felt so helpless. Save his family, no one mattered more to him than Harry and Hermione, and when one of them hurt, they all hurt. In second year, when Hermione had been petrified by the basilisk, he had actually felt Harry's heart fracture and he knew Harry had felt the same from him. Even then, however, they never spoke of it other than to reassure each other that she would be okay, that they would somehow _make_ it okay.

And then Ginny was taken and he had just about lost his mind, and once again Harry had withdrawn. Ron had known his friend was planning something, had known that he wouldn't be able to help Harry, and had been terrified that he was going to lose both his best friends and his sister. But Harry had saved Ginny. He had once again defeated Voldemort and saved the entire wizarding world.

Hermione had thought him jealous of Harry for Ginny's rescue. Honestly, for someone so smart, she could be really dumb at times. Didn't she understand that he didn't care who had saved Ginny, as long as she was saved? Fred and George were twins in body, but he and his sister were twins in spirit; he was closer to her than any of his siblings. Bill and Charlie were almost grown and out of the house by the time he and Gin had come along, Percy was a wanker, and the twins were built-in best friends by virtue of their birth.

It wasn't that he was jealous of Harry for saving Ginny; it wasn't that he blamed either Harry or Ginny for the mess with the diary; it was that he felt horribly guilty that he had been so wrapped up in his friends and his classes and Quidditch and so many inconsequential things, he hadn't even noticed what had been happening to his sister.

Harry had understood that, he instinctively knew. He had fumbled, trying to express his gratitude, and before the words even left his mouth, he knew it was a mistake. Harry hadn't wanted praise or thanks, and had clammed up so tight that he didn't speak to anyone for days. Ron knew that Harry had managed to find a way to blame himself, which frustrated him to no end.

Didn't Harry know that these things weren't his fault? He wasn't responsible for Voldemort!

He couldn't bear to consider of his actions toward Harry during the Tournament. He was still so ashamed of his behavior that he suspected there was a permanent tear in his soul. How could he have been so thoughtless? Why should he have made Harry suffer for his own insecurities? What kind of friend did that?

Everyone thought him a jealous prat, but it wasn't that simple. Of course he was jealous of Harry. He didn't know anyone who wasn't, save Hermione, but it wasn't because Harry was in the Triwizard Tournament or because he had saved the Sorcerer's Stone or because he was the youngest Seeker in a century.

It was because Harry was so...wonderful. It was because no matter how much attention he got, he didn't want it. It was because he insisted that without Ron and Hermione, he would be long dead. It was because he argued that all he did was catch a Snitch, which wasn't as difficult as being a Beater, Chaser, or Keeper. It was because even though Hermione could be such a nag, Harry was always so proud of her accomplishments. It was because though everyone had wanted to be his best friend, Harry had chosen Ron above all of them.

It was because Harry was _Harry_, and Harry Potter was the most decent person Ron had ever known.

But it wasn't the victories to which Harry clung, it was the deaths. Quirrell, Cedric, Sirius; none of which were in any way his fault, but Harry held himself accountable nonetheless. Ron had watched his best friend, his first real friend outside his family, slowly wither away, drawing into himself and becoming harder to reach with each passing year. His smiles were no longer joyful and no longer reached his eyes. Every movement was forced, every utterance contrived, every thought calculated.

He and Hermione were barely hanging on to Harry, who kept trying to push them away, convinced he was going to get them killed. Harry insisted they didn't understand what they were getting themselves into, that he was too dangerous to be around, but he was wrong. They knew standing beside Harry could cost them their lives, but they accepted it because there was no alternative; they loved Harry too much to let him stand alone. They wouldn't survive without him, and if he was going down, he was going with his two best friends supporting him all the way.

What would he do if he lost Harry, either to Voldemort or to Harry himself? He and Hermione would have each other, but without Harry...no. Ron refused to consider that possibility. They had been through too much; they meant too much to each other.

Except everything had started to change. Out of nowhere, Hermione had turned into a girl. Intellectually, he had always known she was a girl, but when he saw her in those robes and on Krum's arm at the Yule Ball in fourth year, he suddenly realized that she was gorgeous. In truth, she always had been, but after their rough start in first year, he had looked at who she was on the inside. Now, the outside had caught up and she took his breath away. Every now and again, she would look at him and he thought she might like him, too, but he was never sure, and Harry was of no help, absolutely refusing to get in the middle.

Except Harry was always in the middle of the two of them; he didn't realize they wanted him there. It was inconceivable that he should be anywhere else. If not for Harry, he and Hermione would most likely never have been friends. They could barely talk to each other without Harry being present or as their topic of conversation. In a very real way, Harry completed them, as ridiculous as that might have sounded to those who could never understand.

The dynamics were changing, shifting, as the three of them moved beyond childhood and into adolescence. Now there were hormones and brassieres and hair in strange places. Whatever he and Hermione had, she had something else with Harry, as did Ron himself. If the three were a triangle, then Harry was not only a side, but both pairs of cruces which connected the other two; each had found something in him which they didn't have with each other.

Ron didn't understand what this meant. He knew he loved them both in a way he could never love anyone else. He dreamt of Hermione at night, but Harry was always in those dreams, and it confused him even more because of the rightness of his friend's presence. He didn't think he was in love with Harry, because the idea somehow cheapened what they had.

Harry called out to a part of him which Hermione never could. He really didn't think he wanted to have sex with Harry. In fact, he didn't want to think about _anyone_ having sex with Harry, ever, as if the Boy Who Lived should be above such profanity. He did, however, want them to be as close as they had been first year, before Quirrell, before the visions, before the losses.

No, _he_ wanted to be closer. He wanted to be the one Harry called out for in his sleep, rather than a dead boy. He wanted to be unafraid of crawling into Harry's bed and holding him tightly when the nightmares became too much. He wanted Harry to be able to talk to him again without worrying how his words might be perceived. Harry was pulling away so quickly that Ron felt something being torn from his body.

He had to admit that he hadn't liked it when Harry was seeing Cho. Not just because she was a moron, but because she could take Harry away from him. He had publicly bemoaned that Harry and Ginny had once appeared to be getting closer, arguing that he didn't want to think of his little sister dating anyone, but secretly thought that if he could push them together, at least Harry would be bonded to his family. Except Ron didn't want to share Harry with anyone but Hermione. Certainly not his sister!

Hermione would be arriving soon and they were going to form a plan. And when Harry showed up in a few weeks, Ron was going to force the issue once and for all. Things just couldn't keep up this way.

Something was coming; he knew this instinctively. He paced back and forth in the field, and it was only when he finally realized he hadn't heard the familiar swoop of brooms in quite some time that he looked up and saw the twins and Ginny hovering, staring at him.

"Oi, Ronniekins!" George called. "What's wrong, mate?"

Ron just shook his head angrily and stalked away. Fred made to chase after him, but Ginny blocked him and quietly told the twins to leave their brother alone.

"Must be thinking about Hermione," Fred whispered sagely.

"When do you think he'll pull his head out of his arse and make a move?" George wondered.

"I don't think that's it," Ginny countered. "I don't know what it is, but Hermione's only a part of it."

The twins gave each other a knowing look, but she couldn't decipher what it meant.

"What's going on?" she demanded. "What do you know that I don't?"

They shrugged and flew away.


	3. Visiting Hours

**Author's Note**: I'm irritated that I have to warn for this, but there are harsh words exchanged between _Buffy_ characters in this chapter. I don't understand the inclination to denounce something as _bashing_ simply because characters fight with one another. Friends argue all the time - that doesn't mean they don't love and support each other when it truly matters. Per canon, Buffy, Willow, Xander, Cordelia, etc. often argued. No one gets along _all the time a_nd writing such a scene is certainly not _bashing_. However, if you feel that arguing characters will bother you, it is best that you refrain from reading this chapter.

Again, my versions of Tara and Riley are decidedly different than their canon portrayals. In this story, both Tara and Riley are good friends with Xander and Anya, thus they aren't as isolated as they were with Willow and Buffy on the show, so they're more integrated within the Scooby Gang. I'm an unabashed Riley fan and I think Tara is awesome. There was a lot that could have been done with both characters that just...wasn't.

* * *

Angel slipped silently into Cordelia's hospital room.

Xander was sitting at her bedside, holding her hand, staring at the wall above her head. Anything not to look at her.

Angel received a curt nod in greeting from Tara.

"Hello, Angel," said a somber Xander

The vampire paused, his surprise evident, though only Tara was witness to it. "I thought I needed a bell?"

Xander offered a soft, dark chuckle. "After a year of having Spike sneak up behind me to try to scare me, my senses have become a little more attuned." He gave a wan smile. "Go me."

Spike. Angel didn't like to think of him, and certainly didn't want to consider that he now seemed to be an integral part of Xander's, and therefore Buffy's, life.

"Tara," Xander continued, "this is Angel."

"It's nice to meet you," she quietly said.

"Likewise," Angel absently replied. "Xander..."

"Buffy's fine; he's still with Riley and they're happy. Tara and Willow are happy together too. Dawn's doing well in school, but I really wish she and Spike weren't so close. Anya is working in the Magic Box with Giles." He paused a looked down and his and Cordelia's joined hands. "Joyce is very sick."

Angel blinked. He had no idea what was wrong with Joyce but, were it serious, it certainly didn't bode well for Buffy and her friends. Joyce was not just loved, but beloved. He then realized that he had filled him in on everyone but Xander himself.

"And how are you?"

"I'll be okay."

"That's not what I asked, Xander."

A mirthless laugh. "Don't pretend you care, Angel. We're not friends and never will be. The only thing we have in common now is her," he whispered, eyes roving over Cordelia's face in search of any trace of consciousness.

Angel sighed and rubbed his eyes. "I wish I understood why you hate me so much. I used to think it was Buffy, but now I don't believe she really ever had anything to do with it."

Xander silently seethed and both Angel and Tara's eyes widened at the sheer amount of rage rolling off him. Angel could smell it, Tara could sense it, and both waited for the inevitable explosion.

Xander, however, was not about to do anything which might upset Cordelia, whether she was unconscious or not.

"I hate you because your sire killed my best friend and turned him into a nightmare," he hissed. "I hate you because you distracted Buffy from her Calling and it cost people their lives, kids from my school, kids Will, Cordy, and I had known our entire lives. I hate you for Jenny Calendar. You killed Jenny."

Angel flinched harshly.

"I hate that Buffy always chose you over her friends; not just me, but all of us: Willow, Cordelia, Kendra, Oz, and Giles. Even her own mother. You meant more than we did, though we've done more for her than you ever have or will. I hate you because it was your existence which brought Drusilla and Spike down on our heads. I hate you because you were inadvertently responsible for Kendra's death. I hate you for not taking better of Cordelia."

Angel swallowed and tilted his head. "Is there anything else?"

"Yeah. I'm grateful for every time you saved my life. I'm grateful to you for leading me to Buffy that night, even though I had to force you to do it. I'm grateful to you for all the times you've saved the world, both with my group and your own. I'm grateful for all you've done to help Faith, because even though I was the first person to know she could be redeemed, I wasn't who she needed."

Xander blinked furiously as his voice became more raspy with each word.

"I'm grateful to you for taking Cordelia under your wing in a town which swallows and then spits out the carcasses of smart, beautiful girls every single day." His tone turned bitter. "I'm grateful to you for giving her a place in which she belongs, instead of the one I gave her, where she was only _tolerated_," he spat.

A stunned Angel slumped against the wall. He couldn't believe those words had just escaped Xander's mouth, couldn't believe the boy had allowed them to be uttered.

It wasn't an apology.

It was _better_.

It was acknowledgment, something Angel thought he'd never have from Xander, something he never even thought he had _wanted_, and it was only now, after those words had been freely given, that he realized how much he had craved them.

He didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. He doubted Xander desired a response. The boy sounded so weary of life, Angel didn't wish to upset or alienate him further.

This was why Cordelia had chosen him, he realized. Xander always saw the Big Picture, he wasn't afraid to make the Hard Choices, and he was willing to feast on crow when those he loved were in danger. He never let anyone intimidate or rush him, or make up his mind for him. As much as Cordelia was her own person, so too was Xander Harris. That was what had attracted them to each other in the beginning, and it was what bonded them still.

"What do we do for her?" Angel whispered.

Xander turned to stare at the wall. "The doctors told me she's stabilizing. Once she no longer needs the ventilator, we will take her home, where we will wait. If she's going to die, it's won't be in here."

Angel nodded weakly, a gesture Xander couldn't see, but one which the vampire was sure he felt. The boy was right. This would not be where Cordelia spent her final moments.

"Tara, seal the door," Xander softly said.

The witch's hand flew up and the door blazed with golden light.

Xander turned toward Angel, who saw the determination of the boy he had once so casually dismissed as Buffy's White Knight. It was rare that Xander got so fired up about something, but when he did, people stood up and took notice, because he was usually right.

"I have Anya looking for answers," he said. "We can't take the visions from Cordy. She would never allow it and we can't battle the Powers, but there has to be _something_ out there that can help."

Angel nodded cautiously. He sensed a change coming and, for the first time since Cordelia had succumbed to the prison of her own body, he felt hope.

"Anya knows more about this world and every other than anyone I know, more than any vampire, witch, Slayer, or Watcher. If there's information out there, she'll find it." He inhaled sharply. "What I need to know right now is if you're willing to do what's best for Cordelia, even if that means losing her."

"What do you mean?" the vampire asked, eyes narrowing.

"Are you willing to let her go to save her?"

"Yes."

"Even though you'll no longer have a Seer?"

"I'd rather lose myself than her."

"We finally have something in common."

* * *

Xander soon announced that he had an errand to run but would return in a couple of hours.

He offered to call a taxi to take Tara to the hotel, but she preferred to stay with Cordelia, knowing that was what he would want, even if he would never ask. If he couldn't be there, then she would be his proxy, and she knew better than to pry about whatever he had planned.

Angel, however, was not as astute and wanted answers. Xander instantly shut down and his voice adopted that cold, malevolent edge with which Angel was all too familiar, and the vampire knew the boy was not going to reveal anything.

Xander crossed the room to Tara, who cast a shield around them so that they could not be overheard by Angel or Wesley, who had just entered.

The former Watcher gave a menacing glare to Xander, who merely offered derisive laughter before turning back toward Tara. He told her where he was going, why, what he hoped to accomplish, and that he would check in with Anya.

She inwardly marveled at his ability to form a plan and cover every contingency. She briefly wondered, not for the first time, why Buffy and Willow were unable to see him as she and Riley did. It sometimes seemed as if Giles got a glimpse at how truly competent Xander was before allowing himself to be subsumed by his self-imposed paternal instincts, falling into his pattern of overlooking his surrogate son _for the boy's own good_.

As one, Tara and Xander turned their eyes on the now-arguing vampire and ex-Watcher.

Wesley was gesticulating wildly with his hands, pointing first at Cordelia, then at Xander, and finally to Angel himself. For his part, Angel glared viciously, and whatever threats he was growling were so soft, Xander and Tara were unable to determine their nature.

At last, Wesley relented, though he was still obviously reluctant to entrust Cordelia's care to Xander.

Xander and Tara kissed each other's cheeks and then he departed without a word.

Angel followed, presumably to skulk around the hospital in self-pity.

Tara looked hard at Wesley and crossed her arms beneath her chest, silently challenging him to utter one disparaging word about Xander in her presence.

He never did.

* * *

Faith the Vampire Slayer had been stunned when the night guard announced she had a visitor.

She naturally assumed it was Angel, but this particular day wasn't the vampire's usual pattern. As she was escorted to the waiting room, she frantically worried that it was Wesley instead who had come for a visit. He had asked several times for an audience, but was always patently refused. Faith just wasn't ready to confront her former Watcher's righteous anger or, even worse, listen to him offer his forgiveness.

She walked numbly through the halls and allowed the guard to seat her at one of the desks, separated by a shield of plexiglass from the Visitors Area. Exhaling forcefully, she finally roused enough courage to raise her eyes and was horrified to see Xander Harris staring back at her.

He gestured to the phone and she hesitantly picked hers up. Before he said one word, Faith beat him to the punch.

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

She blinked. "What?"

"I know, Faith. I knew before you did. Before Angel did. Before anyone did."

"You tried to help me," she whispered, tears threatening, though she wouldn't give in. She never did.

"You weren't ready, and I wasn't the right person."

She sighed. "Sometimes I really wish you had been."

He ducked his head. "Sometimes I do too."

She said nothing, lost in her thoughts.

"Something's happened."

She swiftly raised her gaze. "Fang?"

"Indirectly. It's Cordelia."

Her eyes widened. _Now_ it made sense.

Xander might have forgiven her, but he wouldn't have come to Los Angeles just to see her, and he certainly wouldn't be here for Fang or Wes. She should have guessed immediately that something had happened to the Queen.

"What's the deal?" she asked.

"You know about the visions?"

She nodded.

"They're destroying her brain. She's in a coma."

Faith winced and then scowled. She might not quite have understood it, but Queen C was a major player in all of this. Angel needed her to balance him in a way Buffy never could; with Cordelia, he couldn't get away with the shit for which Buffy let him slide.

The Queen kicked his ass and made him grateful for it, kind of like Xander did with Buffy. That was pretty damn cool. She didn't want to see what would happen to Angel were Cordelia to die. She couldn't lose him, not even to himself. He was all she had left.

Xander allowed her to process the news before continuing. He then quickly outlined Cordelia's diagnosis and prognosis, his plans to remove her from the hospital, that Tara was with him and was dealing with Angel and Wesley, and how Anya was searching for answers.

"What do you need?"

"I need you to be there for Angel if I have to take Cordy away. He can't do this on his own, Faith, and I think we both know that Cordelia's absence will most likely destroy him. He's going to be lost without a Seer: first Doyle, now Cordy?" He shook his head. "Knowing that she's out there somewhere getting help will go a long way, but if he's to continue this fight, he needs someone standing at his side who has more power than a bookworm."

A giggle erupted. She knew he blamed Wesley in part for her fuckups, and while she remained unconvinced of that belief, she recognized the veracity of his argument. Angel would need help that Wesley simply couldn't provide.

As a Slayer, she often had precipitous dreams when the Big Scary was looming over the world. It wasn't the same as Cordelia's abilities and it wasn't as strong as Buffy's sense, but it was something; it would help. Also, there was her ability to sense demons, which was greater than Buffy's.

Sometimes it still surprised her just how different the powers of two Slayers could be. Of course, there had never before been two concurrent Slayers.

She then remembered Kendra and winced.

She took a long appraising look at Xander.

Kendra had been Called because of him. She herself had been Called because of him.

She had been thinking a lot about him lately: how she had treated him; how she had used him; how she had bought too easily into Buffy's dismissals, which she hadn't realized in time were subtle warnings to stay away.

And now here he was, asking her for help. Not for himself and not for Buffy, but for Cordelia and thus indirectly for Angel, a vampire whom she knew he loathed.

She understood there was no way Angel could go back to Sunnydale and deal with Buffy and Riley, as well as with Giles. Apparently, Xander knew it as well. He had zero fucks to give where Angel was concerned, but he valued Angel's contributions. He wanted Angel to continue the fight.

And he had come to her for help.

That took a hell of a lot of guts, and she sure as shit owed him.

"But I'm stuck in here," she said helplessly.

He raised a brow. "Well, I'm just going to have to do something about that, aren't I?"

* * *

After leaving Faith with the promise of returning tomorrow, Xander stood outside the prison and called Anya.

"Hey, baby."

"Hey, you," she replied, and he could hear both the smile and the relief in her voice. "How's Cordelia?"

"Pale."

Luckily, she had gotten pretty good at Speaking Xander and let it go.

"Where are you?" she asked, trying a different tack.

He quickly filled her in.

"Xander," she began hesitantly, "are you sure this a good idea?"

"Probably not," he admitted, "but it's the only solution I have right now."

"Well," she sighed, "it's got its flaws, but I think it might work."

"Is there a spell?"

"Not as such, but I think I can find a way."

"Any progress on what we discussed before I left?"

"More than you can imagine," she replied, clutching the freshly-delivered scroll to her chest.

Xander stood there listening, jaws agape, stunned at what she had managed to pull off in only a few hours. "You're a genius!"

"I know."

"Should we tell the others?"

"Are you deficient?"

"Damn. No wonder you remind Buffy and Willow of Cordy."

He could hear her grin through the phone.

* * *

"So. You're a witch."

Tara gave Wesley the side eye. If this was his opener, she couldn't wait for the main event. She nodded.

"And you and Miss Rosenberg are..." he trailed off, discomfited.

"Lovers."

"Of course." He then fell silent.

"Is that all?"

Wesley blinked. "Sorry?"

"Is that all you wanted to know?"

He paused only briefly. "What are Mister Harris' intentions toward Cordelia?"

She gave an indelicate snort. "That's really none of your business."

"Now see here..."

"No," she interrupted, "_you_ see here. I'm sure it's very upsetting for you, after all you've been through with Angel and Cordelia, to see her care now entrusted to Xander of all people."

His eyes widened.

She nodded. "I know you knew him when both you and Cordelia were still in Sunnydale and I also believe that this has more to do with worry about Cordy than it does jealousy of Xander. However, Cordelia _chose _Xander to take care of her.

"You need to suck it up and deal with it, or I'm going to have Buffy, Willow, Joyce, Dawn, Giles, Riley, and Anya all down here on the next broom, just so they can shove it up your ass. We probably wouldn't even have to pay Spike to help with that."

He gave an exaggerated blink. "Well, you certainly are direct."

She raised a brow and threw him a cold look. "I'm whatever I need to be where my family is concerned."

* * *

Xander inadvertently met up with a pacing Angel in the hallway outside of Cordelia's hospital room.

"Are you going to tell me what you're up to?" an angry Angel demanded.

Xander paused and considered both the question and his answer. "No," he finally said.

Angel scowled. "You are the most insufferable, arrogant, annoying, bratty..."

An aghast Xander gasped. "Did I turn into Spike?"

Angel stared at him for a moment and then burst out laughing. "Okay, I get it now."

Xander narrowed his eyes. "Get what?"

"Why they keep you around. You _are_ funny."

Cold fury descended upon Xander's face as he curled a lip and tried to stalk away.

Realizing how his words had been interpreted and castigating himself for it, Angel grabbed Xander's arm.

"Wait. Just...wait. Please?"

Xander said nothing, but halted.

"Xander...hell. I don't know what to say to you. I never have. I wasn't trying to make fun of you. I guess, shit, this is usually where Cordy comes in and decodes my words for people."

Xander allowed himself a small smile.

"I just meant," Angel continued, "that I'm finally seeing in you what was obvious to so many. You're a good man, Xander. You're a good friend."

Xander hesitantly looked up into the vampire's eyes, searching for any trace of mockery, and was surprised to find none. "Thanks," he whispered.

And that's when Angel lost it, willing to show just how scared he was, trusting that Xander's love for Cordelia would make him understand.

"What if she dies?" he asked, voice breaking. "How am I going to make it without her, Xander? I came here and I thought everything from Sunnydale was left behind, and she shows up out of the blue and before I knew what hit me, she had wormed her way into my office, into my life, into my _heart_. And if she doesn't make it, I don't think I will either." He shook his head. "Not after Doyle. I can't lose her, too."

Xander stared at the tears rolling down Angel's face and, in that moment, realized just how much Angel loved Cordelia, in the same way he himself loved Willow and Buffy. They might fight, exchange words, indulge in silences, but at the end of the day, there were few comforts greater than knowing your best friend in all the world would always be there for you. And it was this knowledge which allowed him to push away five years of hatred, disgust, and uncertainty to embrace the vampire.

A whoosh of surprised and unneeded air was expelled from Angel as Xander pulled him into his arms. He faltered a fraction before burying his head in Xander's neck and clinging to the boy like a lifeline.

Xander held him a moment, letting him sob out some of the fear, frustration, and anxiety while struggling to remember what Anya had said to him before he departed from Sunnydale.

"We're going to do everything we possibly can, Angel. We'll exhaust every avenue, upturn every rock, and dig through every moldy book until we find something. If...if Cordy dies, she'll die knowing that we did absolutely everything possible to save her, that we will always love her."

Angel pulled back and stared at him.

"Some things are ultimately out of our hands, but we can't stop fighting just because we're afraid we might lose the people for whom we fight. We'll get through this, no matter the outcome. I promise you that."

Angel was silent for a moment, looking at Xander as though he had never before met him. "This is what you do for Buffy, isn't it?"

Xander offered a mild shrug. "When she lets me."

Angel drew himself up and looked down at him. "Thank you."

Xander carefully wiped Angel's tears before standing on his toes and chastely kissing his cheek.

Angel was so stunned, he just stood there, staring stupidly at the former bane of his existence, who took the opportunity to reach up and muss his hair.

Xander smirked. "Always wanted to do that."

Angel bent slightly until they were nose to nose. He leered, trying to provoke Xander if only so they would once again be on equal footing. "Which one? The kiss or the hair?"

Xander tilted his face upwards, his lips resting at the corner of Angel's mouth. "Wouldn't you like to know?" he murmured

Tara and Wesley stood watching from the window in Cordelia's room.

* * *

Willow had finally stopped worrying a path in the rug of her dorm room, gritted her teeth, and picked up the phone.

"Who are you calling?" Buffy asked in a casual voice.

"Anya. I'm hoping Xander has called her by now, since neither he _nor my_ _girlfriend_ have seen fit to pick up the damn phone and check in."

Buffy snickered. "What, are you afraid Xander and Tara have run off together?"

Willow said nothing.

Buffy sat up in her bed in a flash, startled. "Wait a minute. _Are_ you?"

Willow shook her head. "No. No, of course not!"

"Then what's the problem, Will? Isn't Tara allowed to take two steps without giving you a full itinerary?"

She whirled on Buffy, eyes ablaze. "You don't know anything about me and Tara. You never wanted to know, so why the sudden concern for our relationship?"

Buffy winced. "Will, I've told you over and over again how sorry I am for my initial reaction to you and Tara. It had nothing to do with her and everything with not wanting to lose Oz after losing Angel and Cordy. I don't know how many times I can apologize, but if it will make you feel better, then I'm sorry, okay?"

Willow sighed. "It's not that, Buff. I know you're sorry and I know you've tried to make amends."

"Then what the hell is going on?" Buffy asked lightly, but with conviction.

"I don't know!" the frustrated girl shouted. "I don't _know_ why I'm so upset. I don't know why I'm acting like this. I know Xander and Tara would never do anything behind my back, but I admit I was surprised when he asked her to go with him and she so readily agreed."

Buffy frowned. "I thought you wanted Tara to be friends with everyone in the gang."

"I do! It's just...I'm so afraid she's going to leave me. I think about it all the time. I'm terrified I'm going to do or say the wrong thing, and she's going to leave me, just like Oz did."

Buffy blinked. "Is that it? You're not having any trust issues with Xander or Tara, are you?"

"No! No way, Buff. Tara would never cheat on me!"

"I notice you left Xander out of that statement."

"Well, how could Xander cheat on me?" asked a flummoxed Willow. "We're not together."

Buffy looked down and buffed her nails on her bedspread. "Oh, maybe by him racing off to Los Angeles to take care of Cordelia?"

Willow couldn't stop the thunderous scowl which appeared on her face. "I don't know what he ever saw in her."

Buffy sighed, leaned back, and stared up at the ceiling. "At last, we finally get to it."

"Get to _what_?" Willow bellowed, turning to face her best friend, hands on her hips and glaring.

Buffy raised her head and a brow. "To the fact that it doesn't matter, that it _never_ mattered, what you thought about Cordelia or about Cordelia and Xander as a couple. At every opportunity, you wormed your way into their relationship and made your feelings for her clear, both to her _and_ Xander."

"He's my best friend and I was concerned!" Willow protested. "Cordelia was a bitch, Buffy, to _both_ of us, or have you forgotten?"

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Seriously, Will? Have _you_ forgotten all the horrible and vile things we said about her, both behind her back and to her face? Cordelia obviously grew up; I'd like to think I have, too. Don't you think it's time you did as well, as far as she's concerned?" She shook her head. "I just don't get it. I've never seen anyone affect you the way Cordy does. It's utterly bizarre."

Willow huffed. "You have no idea what it was like growing up in her shadow, Buffy. All of the potshots she took at me. At every opportunity, she was in my face, calling me names, pushing me around, ridiculing what I wore, who my friends were, how well I did in school. All of the horrible things she said to Jesse and Xander. How could Xander just put all that aside and be with her?"

"And not with you?" Buffy asked sharply. "Isn't _that_ what this is really about?"

"You're not listening to me at all!"

"I'm listening to and hearing you just fine, Will, but be honest with me about something. Were you really ever Cordelia's victim? Did you never once say anything about her or against her, either to her face or to other people? Were you not the founder of the _I Hate Cordelia Club_? Did you, Jesse, and Xander not attack Cordy and her friends at every opportunity, as well? Are you telling me Cordelia always instigated the fights? Because, sorry, I find that extremely hard to believe."

Her eyes narrowed. "You know what I'd like to know? When they were dating, of whom were you more jealous? Xander or Cordelia? I _had_ thought it was all about Xander, that he had found someone who wasn't you, but now I'm wondering if you were jealous of him, because he finally won Cordelia's respect and approval."

Willow said nothing.

"What do you even know about Cordelia?" Buffy continued. "Do you know what her home life was like? Do you know anything about her parents? Have they stayed in contact? Last I heard, her father was in jail and her mother had taken off without another word. Still, Cordy had enough guts to pack up whatever she had left after the audit and head off to Los Angeles to try and make a new life for herself. _At eighteen years old_.

"Once she got there, she hooked up with Angel, has been continuing to fight, has saved countless lives, and what has it gotten her? Dead friends. A coma from which she might never awaken. Possible brain damage. And you want to stand there and whine about high school?"

Willow looked abashed but still doubtful. Buffy's words were flaying her with their truths, but it was _Cordelia_. Cordelia had always been such a...a..._Cordelia_.

"And why the hell do you care if Xander takes off to be with her?" Buffy asked, sitting up on her bed. "If Anya doesn't have a problem with it, why should you? You are not Xander's girlfriend, Willow, and I think you really need to accept that once and for all. It cost him his relationship with Cordelia, was a big part of why Oz left the first time and, if you're not careful, it's going to come between you and Tara. So sit down, _breathe_, think about what I said, and _I'll_ call Anya."

* * *

Anya was surprised to receive a phone call from Buffy, but that surprise quickly turned to annoyance when the Slayer's cadence changed from curious to interrogative.

"I already told you, Buffy!" she barked. "Xander and Tara arrived in Los Angeles a couple of hours ago."

"Well, why hasn't he called to check in?" Buffy demanded.

She knew she was being contrary to everything she had just said to Willow, she couldn't stop herself. She was worried about Xander; she was worried about his emotional state after being confronted with a comatose Cordelia; she was worried Angel would be harassing him; and she was worried there might be some demonic attack and she wouldn't be there to protect him.

"He _did_ call to check in," Anya retorted. "What you really mean to ask is why didn't he call _you_. I don't know. Maybe he decided calling his _girlfriend_ with whom he _lives_ was sufficient?"

Buffy bristled, internally warring with Anya's tone while recognizing the truth of her charge. "Then why hasn't Tara called Willow?"

"Am I Tara's keeper?" Anya countered. "It's not up to me who she does or doesn't call. I suppose she'll call when she's ready. Maybe she doesn't want to leave Xander alone, and I know he doesn't want to leave Cordelia."

"But he left her long enough to call you?" Buffy questioned, voice dripping with sarcasm. She could all but hear the ex-demon's shrug.

"Well, I don't know Buffy. I'm not as close with Tara as I'd like, so I don't know what she would or wouldn't do. I do, however, know Xander, and he knows I would be worried, so he called me. What is this really about? Why not tell me what's got you so pissed off?"

Buffy faltered, unable to answer the question.

"When you figure it out, let me know," Anya said dismissively, before slamming down the phone.

* * *

Angel placed a hand on Xander's shoulder. "Why don't you take a break? You and Tara have been here for hours and haven't even left to go to the bathroom. Well, except for wherever you went before - which I still want to know about, by the way. Get something to eat or drink. Wesley and I will stay with Cordy."

Xander offered a tired smile in reply before exchanging a glance with Tara. Myriad expressions flitted across their faces, while the vampire and the Watcher stood mystified, trying to discern what laid behind the raised brows or slightly widened eyes. At once, the boy and girl nodded and slogged from the room, leaving behind two very confused men.

* * *

"Did you see Faith?"

Xander nodded and placed a guiding hand on her elbow. "Let's head to the cafeteria. I could use some coffee and we can get some hot water for your tea."

"How do you know I even have tea?" Tara demanded.

He smirked. "You mean there's not two emergency bags of Irish Breakfast in the zipper compartment of your wallet?"

She huffed. "You don't know me."

He laughed.

* * *

"What do you think is going on between them?" Wesley quietly asked.

"I think Xander has finally found someone who will let him be Xander," Angel replied.

* * *

"You're really going to do this?" asked a skeptical Tara, once he had filled her in on the whole plan.

He shrugged. "I know it's not the best, but it's the best I can come up with."

She shook her head. "That's not what I mean. It's a good plan and I think it will work, but it requires you to keep a lot of secrets, Xander. I'm just worried about you."

He reached across the cafeteria table and took her hand. "And I appreciate it, but I think it's best for everyone involved. If it will save Cordelia, it's worth it."

"I can't believe Anya managed to do all this."

He grinned. "I know. She's something, my girlfriend. I just wish the others would take the time to notice."

"Does it really matter what they think?"

He was silent a moment and then sighed. "It shouldn't, but it does. I don't want their approval to matter, Tara, especially since they don't give two shits about mine, but I want them to like her. I want them to see how happy she makes me."

"You want them to care," she finished. "Like they refused to do when you and Cordelia were together."

He nodded.

"It's not that they don't. It's that, well, they're jealous, Xander."

He snorted.

"It's true," she insisted. "I don't understand why you can't see it. They were jealous of Cordelia, they were jealous of Faith, and they're jealous of Anya. They're even jealous that Riley and I are your friends. It doesn't matter who you're with, Xander, they're never going to like them because they feel whoever it is will try to take you away."

"But that's not fair," he protested.

She smiled sadly. "No, it not, but it is true. I don't think you really understand just what you mean to them. You're the man who will always love them, who will fight and die to protect them, who will never leave them. You really _are_ their White Knight."

He raised his eyes sharply at the remark. "Then why do they treat me like this? Why are they always pushing me away? Why do they ignore me until the very last minute, or until they need something? Why do they ridicule my choices and try to make me feel so worthless? I've done nothing but be a good friend to them. I've done so much. Why is it never enough?"

She met his narrowed eyes with her wide ones, ready to deliver a truth so simple they had all been blinded to it. "Do you really want to know?"

He gave an impatient nod.

"They believe if they continually ignore you and try to exclude you, that when they finally drive you away, when you finally give up and leave, they won't be hurt as badly."

He blinked. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"I never said it was smart."

* * *

"What do you mean?" Wesley asked.

Angel gave him a wan smile. "I don't expect you to understand. You don't know him like I do. Sometimes I think I know him better than Buffy, Willow, or Giles ever will. There's a thin line between love and hate, Wes, and Xander and I hated each other as passionately as we loved Cordelia and Buffy."

Wesley considered that statement. "Are you saying..."

"I'm not saying anything," Angel rushed to add, "other than that I _know_ him. Xander has many facets, Wesley, and he's very careful about which ones he shows to company. Willow and Buffy see him as their best friend, the one who makes inappropriate comments and dark quips, but who always sees the light in the darkness. For them, he's become that light, and they use him as a beacon to find their way home.

"For Giles, Xander is the son he never had, his legacy, but he gets frustrated by Xander's lack of ambition. He tries so hard to make Xander into a mini-Rupert that he doesn't allow the boy any respite to be himself. I don't really know Anya, but I'm assuming that she sees those parts of Xander which he is too afraid to show anyone else, though he still probably manages to conceal the darker aspects of his personality."

Wesley was startled by that thought, that Xander Harris could in any way be considered _dark_. "But you think Tara understands Xander better than his best friends?"

"I think Tara has many facets of her own," Angel said. "She very much reminds me of Joyce: endlessly supportive, quiet and kind, with patience beyond reason, but you would never want to cross either of them."

Wesley digested that. He had only met Joyce Summers on one occasion, but had found her to be a fearsome woman. "And Cordelia?"

"No one will ever understand Xander or Cordelia in the way they understand each other."

* * *

Cordelia, though still unconscious, was nonetheless steadily improving.

Three hours after Xander returned to the hospital, the doctors had agreed per his instruction to remove the ventilator. Thankfully, she had continued to breathe on her own. Her physicians refused to allow her to be released, insisting that she needed further evaluation and observation to determine whether she would _continue_ to stabilize.

Still, her Glasgow score was low and her Babinksi reflex was good. She responded to painful stimuli.

The results of the CAT and PET scans were inconclusive: they definitely indicated there were areas of Cordelia's brain which had shut down due to some unknown neural pathology, but other areas, previously unused, had taken up the slack in response. Thus, there should be no discernible loss of motor skill and function.

While the medical staff refused to state explicitly that Cordelia had suffered no brain damage, they indicated that, if she recovered from the coma, it was likely to be without mental impairment. They cautioned that it was more than possible that she would awaken with changes to her personality.

Angel and Xander alternately wanted to sob and rip the hospital down around them. While they desperately wanted Cordelia to live, would the price to be paid mean that they would lose the woman they so loved? They had argued to stay at Cordelia's side, but the doctors insisted that her condition was not going to change in the next twelve hours and sent them home.

Angel had offered Xander and Tara use of rooms at the Hyperion, but they declined. He was somewhat perturbed that this bothered him. He didn't know Tara, and while he and Xander had made temporary peace, he couldn't count on it to last. It didn't matter that he still had Wesley or Gunn, who was out on patrol, or that none of his staff lived in the hotel with him. He just didn't want to be alone.

"Xander, I understand," he said softly, "but would you do me a favor and stay at Cordelia's apartment? I'm sure Dennis is worried about her."

Xander thought about it for a moment before finally nodding. He reached out and took the proffered key from Angel's hand.

"Dennis?" Tara asked.

"Phantom Dennis, Cordy's roommate," Xander said.

"That sounds...interesting."

He snorted. "Well, at least she's not alone. Besides, Cordy claims he's the only man who's ever really understood her."

At that, Angel snorted as well. They looked at each other and grinned.

"Do you know how to get there?" Angel asked.

Xander shrugged. "I have the address, and Tara's my personal OnStar system."

The witch beamed widely and saluted her friend.

"Do you want us to pick you up tomorrow or meet you here?" Xander asked Angel.

"I'll meet here. I need to check in with Gunn and see if anything turned up on patrol tonight."

"Gotcha." He paused a moment. "Look, Angel, will you do me a favor?"

"Sure."

"Call Buffy and let her know what's going on?"

"I...guess," Angel said slowly. "Is there any particular reason you can't call her?"

Xander stared at him.

"Oh, so I'm supposed to suffer her wrath in your place?"

The boy smiled, threw his arm around Tara, and the two sauntered off. Angel could hear Tara snickering.

"Brats."

* * *

In a place outside of time and space, Cordelia Chase found herself standing before Oracles.

"Well," she huffed, tapping her foot, "it's about flipping time!"

* * *

The air was tense in Buffy and Willow's room, but was momentarily lessened when the insistent chirp of their phone loudly squawked. They raced to answer and Willow reached the instrument first. She gave Buffy a smug, triumphant grin, which was answered by a roll of the eyes.

"Hello?" the witch demanded.

Buffy was able to discern that whoever the caller, it was not someone with whom Willow wished to speak. Indeed, the redhead held out the phone toward the her, saying nothing. Sighing, Buffy crossed the room and snatched the receiver from her friend's hand.

"Yeah?" she barked.

"Hello, Buffy."

She paused, allowing herself to register the surprise of hearing his voice, before answering.

"Hi, Angel," she said in a neutral tone. She then decided to take a page from her Watcher's book and extend simple courtesy. "How are you?"

"Uh, fine, thanks," he answered, thrown. "Listen, Xander asked me to call."

"_Xander_ asked _you_ to call _me_," she slowly stated, as though she couldn't possibly have understood him correctly.

Willow raised her brows.

"Yes," Angel replied, rather testily, which further stoked her annoyance. "He and Tara arrived a few hours ago. We all just left the hospital."

"How is she?"

He sighed and she heard a world of heartbreak in that simple exhalation. "The doctors say she's improving." He paused and then his voice turned strange. "It was weird, Buffy. It was like, as soon as he showed up..."

"Yeah," she softly murmured.

He cleared his throat and continued. "They've taken her off the ventilator."

"Ventilator?" she gasped as the crushing reality of the situation again washed over her.

Willow turned her head and bit her lip, and Buffy could see that, despite her blustery anger, she was truly concerned for Cordelia's welfare.

She had never really thought about it before, but Xander, Willow, and Cordelia had all grown up together, had always been a presence in each other's lives. Granted, said presence hadn't always been welcome, and familiarity often bred contempt, but they were and always would be a part of one another.

She briefly regretted coming down so hard on Willow. Perhaps the witch simply knew no other way to express her fear for Cordelia's health, so entrenched in their past relationship that she was baffled by trying to relate to Cordelia as anything other than Queen C.

"Xander and Tara are staying at Cordy's apartment for the night," Angel added. "As soon as she's able to be moved, we're taking Cordelia home. Xander was quite adamant that if...if she d-dies, it won't be in the hospital."

She swallowed heavily and said nothing. Finally gathering her wits, she launched into her interrogation.

"Angel," she began, "what the hell is going on down there? Why weren't we told about how serious these visions were?"

She would have sworn at that moment that ice coated the telephone line.

"What happens here is none of your business," he hissed, "or did I not make that clear during your last visit? Your concern for Cordelia is a little late, wouldn't you agree?"

Her eyes lighted with fury. "You listen to me," she snarled, "I've known Cordelia for five years, and for the first three, you had almost nothing to do with her. She might not be my best friend, but she fought at my side, even though she didn't have to, and she fought the rest of us to earn her place. She put her life on the line for the very people who spit on her when she dared to choose happiness for herself.

"So you're damned right that I'm concerned, and I don't give two shits what you think about that!" She paused and then softened her tone. "I understand what you're going through, Angel. If this had happened to Xander, well, I'd probably be committed for my own protection and the safety of others, but that doesn't change the fact that I care about Cordy and that I'm worried for her, for Xander, _and_ for you!"

A tense moment of silence followed in which she found him as inscrutable and frustrating as ever.

"I'm sorry," he finally whispered. "This isn't your fault, and I don't mean to take out my anger on you."

"Like I said, I understand," she replied, "but would you please tell me how Xander is doing?" She looked at Willow. "And Tara, too?"

"They're both fine. Xander...has certainly changed."

She frowned. "Changed how?" She sighed and rolled her eyes. "Are you _really_ going to start complaining to me about Xander?"

"Of course not," he said, voice sour. "Maybe it's me who's changed. I finally see in him that which you always have."

She gave a slow blink. "What happened?"

"He kissed me."

Another blink. "Xander kissed you."

"What!" Willow exploded.

"Yes," Angel explained. "He actually hugged me and tried to comfort me when I cried."

"You cried."

"He's a good man," Angel said. "It makes me wish I had tried harder to be his friend when I was still in Sunnydale, instead of constantly baiting him over you."

She said nothing. Honestly, what could she say to that?

"At any rate," he continued, "Xander and Tara are here, they're fine, and they're safe. I'm sure they'll call you and Willow tomorrow. Tara looks exhausted, and so does Xander." He paused. "He's up to something."

"What do you mean?" she asked warily.

"I have no idea," he confessed, "I just know that he's got some master plan and he won't tell me what it is until he's ready."

She smiled. "Yeah, that sounds like him."

"He left the hospital for about an hour but wouldn't tell me where he was going. Tara knows, but she wasn't talking either."

Buffy was silent for a moment, contemplating this information.

Where would Xander have gone in Los Angeles?

Insight crashed over her and she swallowed heavily.

When Xander called her - and he had better - she was going to demand answers. And if he didn't give them, she'd be making her way down to the big city.

For the moment, she wasn't going to voice her suspicions to Angel. If Xander didn't want the him informed, it must have been for good reason. Likewise, she'd refrain from speaking of her assumption with Willow.

That was a can of worms _no one_ wanted to open.

"Well," he sighed, "I should go. I need to meet Gunn and talk about patrol. Like I said, Xander just wanted me to call so you wouldn't worry."

"Thanks."

He hung up without saying goodbye.

She wasn't surprised. He had never learned how to say goodbye to her.

* * *

"I just realized I don't have the key," Xander said, standing in front of the door to Cordelia's apartment and patting his pant pockets. "I don't know where I put it. I hope it's in the car."

"I know a spell," Tara shrugged.

He paused and considered, but at last shook his head and began knocking.

"What are you doing?"

"Dennis? My name's Xander Harris. I'm a friend of Cordy's? My friend Tara and I just left Cordelia at the hospital, and Angel asked us to stay here to keep you company. Would you please open the door?"

There was a moment of silence before the door quietly unlatched and opened. A cautious Xander and Tara crossed the threshold and looked around.

She whistled low. "This is nice. Especially for L.A."

He nodded. "According to Will, Cordy's very...proud to live here, especially after her last home was stolen out from under her," he said savagely, silently cursing Cordelia's asshole of a father. "Can you feel Dennis?"

She closed her eyes and opened all her senses. "I feel...something. A presence, some kind of energy."

"Dennis? Tara's a witch, but a good one, so if your ghostly senses are firing, that's what you're picking up on." He turned to face her. "You really are Glinda."

She snorted.

Dennis's reply was intriguing. The bags which Xander and Tara had laid inside the door were levitated and began floating toward the living room. The boy and girl looked at each other, shrugged, and Tara made her way further into the apartment. Xander quietly shut the door.

Apparently they'd passed Ghost ADT.

"Cordy's getting better, Dennis," Tara announced, a little too loudly. "They've taken her off the ventilator and she's slowly coming out of the coma. In fact, she started improving as soon as Xander arrived."

"Let's not get carried away," he protested. "Any progress Cordy's making is all her own doing. The girl's a force of nature."

The only response was that he was pushed into the armchair as the ottoman slid over and underneath his legs.

He grinned. "I could get used to this."

Tara threw a pillow at him, for which she was rewarded with an icy Diet Coke.

She grinned smugly. "I win."

* * *

Gunn bounded into the Hyperion. "Barbie?"

Angel grunted. "Steadily improving. Xander and his friend Tara are staying at Cordy's apartment. Wes is at the hospital keeping an eye out for Lindsay and Lilah."

The other man nodded, frowning. "What are you saying? Vision Girl started getting better once her ex-honey rolled into town?"

"Yes."

Gunn blinked. "After all the spooky shit I've seen, how can something like that surprise me?"

"It wouldn't, had you ever seen them together."

"But she hates him."

"No. He completely destroyed her, but she never hated him."

Gunn thought about that and finally nodded. "Oh."

"I just called Buffy," Angel continued. "She's upset and worried, and I wouldn't it put it past her to come down here and check up on things."

Gunn shrugged. "Hey, cool. I finally get to meet the love of your life. Or unlife. Whatever."

"It won't be pretty," Angel warned. "Buffy and I don't really...get along these days."

"Because of the other one? The felon?"

"Yeah." And then Angel put it together. "Oh, shit."


	4. Alliances: Odds, Ends, and Weasley Twins

**Author's Note**: Massive chapter in which I violate HP canon as much as possible, including OWL standards, scores, tertiary characters, and anything else I desire. I hope you enjoy it. If you don't, shove off. Have a pleasant day!

* * *

Molly Weasley shuffled restlessly about her kitchen, feeling vaguely guilty for neglecting the dishes soaking in her sink, all of which could stand a good scrubbing that magic was ill-equipped to provide. Her eyes wandered toward the family clock, about to strike midnight, and she felt again the need to verify the safety of her children.

Bill and Charlie's tines indicated they were sleeping, which was good, of course.

Bill had only recently transferred back from Egypt after accepting a promotion at Gringotts Wizarding Bank. Molly was inordinately proud of her eldest child, a former Head Boy of Hogwarts, who was now the only wizard to hold a position of any accord at Gringotts; all other posts belonged to goblins.

Bill was also dating Fleur Delacour, a situation which Molly found intolerable, though little recourse had been left to her. She had been telling Bill for years to settle down and marry, and when he had finally begun to pursue a committed relationship, it had been with that...that woman. It wasn't that she was bothered by the fact that Fleur was part Veela, but that the girl was so obnoxious and so _French_ and so much a host of any number of things which Molly found objectionable.

Still, the couple had been together almost a year, a record for Bill, which was an indication of its seriousness, as well as a sign that Molly truly needed to begin letting him go. She sighed wearily and commanded herself not to chastise Bill's hair the next time she saw him.

Charlie was still stationed at the dragon preserve in Romania, an occupation which filled her with alarm whenever she stopped to consider what it must actually entail. Though the family had visited him on occasion, those excursions had done little to quell her thoughts of the impending doom with which her second child contended on a daily basis. She tended to worry about Charlie perhaps more than that which was healthy, but he was so isolated from the rest of the family, she just couldn't help herself. Of course, he had always been a bit of a loner, even as a small child.

He was closest to Bill, but nothing approaching the bond the twins shared, or even like the one between Ron and Ginny; Charlie was like Percy in that regard. Molly fretted that Charlie had become so consumed with his work that he was allowing the rest of his life to pass him by. She suspected that, other than Bill, she was the only who knew Charlie preferred men. The idea that he had held his silence either out of shame or fear from his family's reaction absolutely sickened her. All she had ever wanted for her children was their happiness.

Her eyes slid to Percy's tine, which several of her other children had insisted should be removed, and was unsurprised to discover he was still at work.

She sighed again, this time in resignation.

She had hoped that after Umbridge had been dispelled from the grounds of Hogwarts and Fudge had been relieved of his position, Percy would have come to his senses and tried to reconnect with the family. She had made all the overtures she could and was left with little to do but wait.

She also knew the longer Percy doggedly clung to his sense of entitlement, the more difficult it would be for the family to accept him back. Arthur, Bill, and Charlie continued to hold out hope, but the twins, Ron, and Ginny had written Percy off and were quite content with their decision.

As much as she wanted to, Molly couldn't blame them. She had always been proud of Percy's accomplishments but had disdained his pomposity and arrogance. Honestly, she didn't know how he had come by those traits. She hadn't raised her children to behave in such a manner.

She suspected Percy was more insecure than arrogant, that he felt a duty to live up to the reputations of his older brothers while distancing himself as far as possible from the machinations of the twins.

She also couldn't blame him for craving the spotlight. Bill had shined in academics and Charlie in athletics. Fred and George cringed at Percy's officiousness and rebelled whenever the opportunity arose. Molly was torn. She loved all of her children, but she knew that until Percy had the grace to apologize for his actions against the family, as well as against Harry, half of the Weasleys would never speak to him again.

And the twins!

Molly didn't understand just where she had gone wrong with them. She had been scandalized when she learned they had hopped their brooms and abandoned Hogwarts. And before they could take their N.E.W.T.s! Then they had gone and opened that ridiculous shop. She was still bemoaning whatever they might have done to get the seed money for that venture.

Making money selling novelties? Capitalizing on the misfortune of others? Bullying by proxy? It was all so unseemly, yet apparently they were doing quite well for themselves. And while there were many things for which she could fault them, their enterprising nature was not one of them.

Still, it just wasn't respectable. Merlin only knew what Arthur's colleagues at the Ministry were saying about their family behind her husband's back, not that Arthur would care, of course. Charlie and Bill thought the twins brilliant, which they were, and there was the rub. Fred and George were remarkably talented and could most likely do whatever they wanted. That they were in fact _doing_ what they wanted and were quite successful at it brought Molly little solace, however.

Ron and Ginny had seen and done more in their short lives than all of her other children put together. They had seen the true face of evil up close and still had the wherewithal to rail against it. Percy had blamed Harry for Ron and Ginny's lot, and the latter two had been so furious at their older brother that Molly truly feared what they would do to Percy should they encounter him again.

All of the Weasleys, save Percy, considered Harry Potter to be another brother, but for Ron and Ginny, he was something much more. Molly still wasn't sure just what that was, exactly. She had known that Ginny had fancied Harry for years, and while she seemed to have moved past her schoolgirl crush, there was a fierceness which overtook her whenever Harry was involved. Ginny was fighting for what she believed in, but Harry had spurred that fight.

As for Ron, Molly well knew that while he, Hermione, and Harry might have their squabbles, they were a force unto themselves and woe unto those who tried to separate them.

She still wasn't sure what exactly had happened that night in the Department of Mysteries, and she wasn't sure she wanted to know. The longer she and Arthur didn't know the extent of Ron and Ginny's involvement in the fight against Voldemort, the longer they wouldn't need to sleep in shifts.

Ron had been utterly devastated when Hermione had been injured in the attack, and that was when Molly had realized just how deeply her son's feelings ran for the girl, as well as for Harry.

Truthfully, it didn't sit well with her and she didn't often like to consider it.

Ron was still so young, and Ginny even younger. Realistically, she knew there was little she could do to shield them from the coming war. Voldemort had managed to infiltrate Hogwarts successfully for the past five years, despite Dumbledore's assurances that the school was impenetrable. She couldn't expect Ron and Ginny to stay clear of the war when the Dark Lord was recruiting amongst their classmates.

Ron and Ginny had declared their loyalties early and had chosen the right side. She absolutely believed that, believed in Harry, but wished she could find more comfort in it than she did.

She was all too aware it was most likely she would be mourning at least one of her children before Voldemort was finally dispatched by Harry.

Harry.

The moment Molly Weasley had set eyes on that boy, she had loved him as her own. It had been apparent this had both shocked and bewildered him, as if he simply couldn't understand why anyone should love him. When Ron had told her that the jumper she had knitted for Harry back in the kids' first year had been the child's first Christmas gift, she had gone on a tearing rampage throughout the Burrow, demanding answers about what hells that boy had been subjected to and, almost six years later, she still didn't have a good explanation.

She certainly had her suspicions, though, and they began and ended with the Dursleys. Oh, if she could just have five minutes alone with those people, she...well, she'd probably end up in Azkaban.

How Harry could have grown up as she suspected he had and still retained his overwhelming capacity to love and a nobility she considered as much a detriment as a gift was beyond her, but the boy was remarkable.

After the fiasco in the Ministry, Percy had owled and promptly placed the blame for everything squarely on Harry's shoulders. Ron and Ginny had gone spare and, before Molly could stop them, had each replied to their brother with some truly vicious Howlers which had put her past ones to shame. She was almost proud of them.

Bill and Charlie had declared their belief that Dumbledore was ultimately responsible because he had refused to give Harry information the boy desperately needed. Molly knew Arthur agreed with them, though he had never voiced that agreement.

She herself was on the fence. She certainly didn't blame Harry for anything that had occurred. She knew Ron and Ginny all too well and, devotion to Harry aside, if they hadn't believed in what they were doing, they never would have gone.

She was still unsure what to feel about Dumbledore. She knew the man was keeping secrets and engineering plots which put children directly into harm's way, but she didn't think him malicious. Still, he unsettled her. For the moment, she was content to lay all the blame at the feet of Voldemort, which was really quite proper, she thought.

Harry had lost so much: his parents, his godfather, classmates. He had almost lost Hermione.

There was still so much that Molly didn't know about what Harry had been enduring. She wasn't sure she wanted to know because she guessed she might not be able to handle it. It saddened her greatly that a fifteen-year-old child had been saddled with the weight of the world on his thin shoulders.

Yet it hadn't stopped him.

At twelve years old, he had gone into the Chamber of Secrets and faced off with Voldemort to save her daughter from certain death. The entire Weasley clan owed Harry Potter a life debt which could never be repaid. Earlier this past year, he had saved the life of her husband. Percy insisted these events would never had arisen if not for Harry, but Molly well knew that without that boy, Voldemort's reign of terror would have continued unabated and her family most likely would have long been buried with her brothers.

No, she would never turn from Harry. If all of this had taught her anything, it was that, outside of her family, he was the only person she could trust absolutely.

If only there was something more she could do!

Molly was startled when a house elf she vaguely recognized unceremoniously popped into her kitchen and handed her a letter before disappearing without a word.

She frowned and looked down, her eyes widening when she recognized Harry's distinctive script before confusion set in. Ron had been ranting and raving that Harry had not responded to any of his owls, so why was her son's best friend writing to her? Not that she was displeased, of course.

Again abandoning her dishes, she leaned against the sink counter and slit open the envelope, eyes immediately welling when she saw that he had addressed her for the first time as _Mum_ and not _Mrs. Weasley_.

She sagged the more she read, her deepest fears confirmed with every sentence. Everything she had long suspected of those dreadful people, those Dursleys, Harry was finally admitting, writing that he had wanted to tell her for years but was ashamed and fearful of her reaction.

Still, she got the sense he was holding back many things.

He implored her not to reveal his secrets to anyone, not even her husband, and she silently vowed to comply. She knew what Harry was entrusting to her and what it had cost him to do so. She would not violate his confidence.

And that was when Molly realized that, despite all of her desires and insistence to the contrary, Harry Potter was not a child. He never had been because he was never allowed to be.

She inhaled sharply, knowing that while it would be extremely difficult and that she would most likely falter more than once, she must shift her treatment of Harry in a fundamental way.

For so long, she had hoped and prayed in vain that he would be able to emerge from this conflict with some shred of his childhood innocence intact, but she now understood that was folly. As Voldemort continued to move against wizarding Britain, Harry's role in the war would become compensatory. He wouldn't tolerate her mothering for much longer. Of course, she had always been surprised that he had allowed her to get away with as much as he had.

She gave a gentle sigh and returned to the letter.

Harry detailed for her his suspicions regarding Dumbledore, many of which were little more than echoes of her own thoughts, ones to which she had never given voice, and her ire instantly ignited. The Headmaster insisted on running the war as if it were all some elaborate game, where Harry was the Knight waiting in the wings.

This was no longer acceptable to Molly Weasley. James and Lily Potter had been dear friends. She still thought fondly on the times when Lily would watch Bill and Charlie while she was busy with Percy and the twins.

She would never forget the look on Arthur's face when he stumbled home through the fireplace that Halloween night. She would never forget the scream trapped in her throat when he broke down and told him that Lily and James had been murdered. She would never forget Charlie's sobbing or the nightmares that had plagued Bill for six months.

James and Lily had sacrificed their very lives, believing their child would be kept safe, and instead Dumbledore had commandeered the boy's life and, inadvertently or not, made it heinous.

This she _would_ share with her husband, and together they would observe Dumbledore more carefully during Order meetings.

Unbeknownst to most, though Molly Prewett Weasley was a proud Gryffindor, had married a Gryffindor, and had given birth to seven Gryffindor children, the Sorting Hat had wanted to place her in Ravenclaw.

While she often allowed emotions to rule her, especially where her children were concerned, she was quite capable of thinking logically and analytically, well versed in designing and implementing plans of action. Such things were necessary when raising a brood as large as hers on so little money.

Harry had no way of knowing, of course, but both she and Arthur were skilled in Occlumency; for Arthur, it was a necessary requirement for his job at the Ministry, and the ability simply came quite easily to her, so there was little worry about Dumbledore being able to ferret out her suspicions. If he ever did, he would simply dismiss them the histrionics of a concerned mother.

When Harry arrived next months, she would sit him down and talk about his sessions with Severus. She had her suspicions about what that man had done to her boy, and if she was proven right, the next ingredient in his potion would be his heart.

Harry's letter then expounded at great length about the events at Hogwarts over the past five years - things of which she had never conceived _possible_ - and he made no bones about the fact that, without Ron and Hermione, he would be dead several times over.

As Molly read his words, her heart thudded as she realized just how much Ron had been keeping from her, so devoted to his friend that he would say nothing which might have caused her to separate him from Harry.

The letter then begged her to step back and take an objective look at Hermione. Harry had taken great pains and been brutally honest about Hermione's contributions, which amounted to more than Harry or Ron had ever managed themselves, and stating quite frankly that Ron would have flunked out of school long ago without her help; that she had stood by him always while there had been times when Ron had not; and that whatever their feelings between the three of them, and despite their current lack of contact, he had no doubt that if Molly ever pressed the issue, Ron would choose Hermione over his family, and so would Harry.

She wept at reading those words, but it was the final sentence which was like a knife through her heart.

_Hermione is not Percy, Mum._

She swatted tears from her eyes as she folded the letter and stowed it in her apron, focusing again on the task before her, those obnoxious dishes, as she thought of her treatment of the girl over the past years.

She had been kind to Hermione during the Trio's first three years at Hogwarts, but even she had recognized that her behavior had changed drastically after the Triwizard Tournament and those nasty articles. She was suddenly shamed by how easily she had believed a pack of lies over the word of her son and the girl who had done so much for him.

No, Hermione wasn't Percy. While her intellect was just as great, so much so that Molly believed the girl should have been placed in Ravenclaw, Hermione's ambition was pure and not selfish. She broke rules only when she thought it necessary, or when she believed said rules stupid or counterproductive to helping her friends. She put people and what was right before everything else.

Hermione had never treated her with anything less than the utmost respect, even when it was not returned, and was strong enough not to put up with any of Ron's nonsense or petulance. She never sought the glory for which Ron often seemed so desperate, preferring instead to do whatever it took to ensure the survival of Harry Potter. She had never wavered in her loyalty or courage.

And in those moments, Molly Weasley recognized she had more in common with Hermione Granger than she had ever realized, and perhaps that had been the problem all along. The girl wasn't trying to take anything or anyone from her; there was no competition. And if Ron _did_ choose Hermione over his family, Molly knew that she would only have herself to blame.

Well, enough of that.

So tomorrow would be a new day in more ways than one. When the time came, she would welcome Hermione Granger into her home with the respect and courtesy the girl deserved, that she was owed, both for the Trio's sake and her own.

She quickly wrote a reply that she would send first thing tomorrow with a post owl, her handwriting disguised with a charm, and hoped her words would indicate to Harry that she had understood and accepted his message.

A new day was soon to dawn.

* * *

Augusta Longbottom was sitting in the parlor of her manor house and ruminating over recent events, deciding she did not particularly care for them at all.

She had been outraged when she had discovered that Neville had left Hogwarts to battle Death Eaters at the Ministry of Magic. What on earth had the boy been thinking? Not that she wasn't proud of him, of course. She was so proud she was fit to burst, but that did little to smother her anger and anxiety.

She had already lost her son and his wife, both permanently convalescing in St. Mungo's and staring blankly at nothing. She wasn't going to lose her grandson, as well. He was more than the Heir of Longbottom, he was the last of the line. Should anything happen to him, her family would become extinguished, and she was not about to let that happen.

Neville was under the mistaken impression that she blamed the Potter boy for these events, but that notion was rubbish. How could she blame a fifteen-year-old child for succeeding where wizards thrice his age and older had failed so miserably? That boy had courage in spades and had inspired great and welcome changes in her grandson.

Harry Potter had defeated Voldemort when he was a year old, and again when he was eleven, and when he was twelve, and when he was fourteen, and then this last year. Who else alive could say as much? Not the Aurors, and certainly not the Ministry. Not even Dumbledore could lay claim to such victories. She had been a young girl during the war with Grindelwald, and while that miserable wretch had been finally defeated by Dumbledore, it hadn't been accomplished singlehandedly and Dumbledore had met the man in battle only once.

Augusta Longbottom knew power when she saw it, and Harry Potter practically glowed with the magical strength which coursed through his veins. She understood that had Voldemort not been thwarted by a baby, he would have kept wreaking havoc for the past sixteen years. She was under no illusions that, had that been the case, both she and Neville would long be dead.

Not that she was ready to throw her lot in with Potter. He had proven that he could defeat Voldemort, yes, but the infernal wizard kept coming back like a nasty case of the trots. She wanted Neville away from all that nonsense, though she knew she had little chance of that occurring.

He had always been so timid, so unsure even in his right to exist. Sadly, she had done little help him. Instead, she had goaded and chastised him at every opportunity to be more like the parents he couldn't remember, to live up to a standard he didn't understand and which had been poorly explained.

No, she had handled him all wrong and, until he had gotten to Hogwarts, he had suffered for it. But then he had found friends, _good_ ones, for whom he was willing to die and who were willing to do the same for him. She couldn't just dismiss that, and she didn't want to.

Neville had, with the help of Harry Potter, carved out a niche for himself which otherwise would have been denied him, and she could find no fault with that. His grades were up, as were his confidence and magical strength. He was finally blossoming into the young lad she always known him capable of becoming, and that was due not to her, but Harry Potter.

Harry Potter humbled her.

She had known James and Lily Potter, and while James had been a bit much for her tastes, there was no denying that Lily had been an incredibly gifted witch and an incomparable woman. Both had been extremely close to Frank and Alice, and Augusta had always regretted that she had not done more to help the Potters' only child. She had tried, of course, but Dumbledore had exerted his will and spirited Harry away before anyone had really known what was happening.

She had been waiting for it. She had known that when Harry had defeated Voldemort all those years ago that it wasn't truly over. The entire wizarding world had allowed itself to be deluded by the victory, thinking it was like Grindelwald all over again, but they were fools. Voldemort was more powerful than Grindelwald had ever been, more invested in dark magic, and more efficient in his ruthlessness. He had used fear itself as a weapon and had instilled in his followers a fealty previously unmatched.

She had herself mostly withdrawn from the world, preferring instead to sit back and watch as events unfolded. She had watched as allegedly former Death Eaters like Lucius Malfoy rose through the ranks of the Ministry, mortified that those in power had been willing to be manipulated by excuses of the _Imperius_ curse as they lined their pockets with tainted gold.

It was appalling.

She had watched as that utter moron Fudge had been placed in office time and again, failing miserably when anything of any import occurred. When Amelia Bones had finally led the charge to rid the Ministry of Fudge, Augusta had utilized every old contact she had to assist the woman. Now Fudge was gone and a woman of sense was installed in his place, but Voldemort still loomed large.

Her family was a target once again, but she had learned much over these last years and she would be damned if she would allow that creature to take anyone or anything from her again.

She blinked when a house elf popped into her study.

"Message for Lady Longbottom," it squeaked.

"I am Longbottom!" she thundered.

"Letter from Harry Potter, Lady."

Augusta raised a brow and held out a hand, grasping the proffered missive. She then glared at the creature. "Was there something else, elf?"

The elf pulled on its ears. "Dobby is to stay while Lady reads her letter and then destroys it. Cannot be having such information floating around."

Her gaze sharpened. What the hell was the Potter boy playing at? Whatever it was must have been serious, so she would comply.

"Very well."

She turned her gaze toward the letter in her hand and tore open the envelope.

Someone really needed to teach this child proper penmanship.

She read as Potter detailed what had occurred in the Department of Mysteries just months ago and what had been Voldemort's goal. She read as Potter revealed to her the prophecy made more than sixteen years ago by Sybill Trelawney. She read as Potter explained that Dumbledore had told him that both he and Neville had fit its parameters, and it was only by a madman's twist of fate that Voldemort had chosen him and not her grandson.

Her breath caught in her throat as she read his words. "This can't be!"

Augusta swallowed heavily and thought about what had been written. She had no reason to disbelieve him; in fact, she found it desperately easy to accept his words at face value. She also doubted that he had told Neville the prophecy. Indeed, from what she could infer, he had told no one. He was only telling her now so that she would understand that Neville was a target for being more than Harry Potter's friend; that her son and his wife had been tortured not because they had been Aurors, but because they had a child who had fit the prophecy.

Indeed, Potter was more concerned with Neville's life than his own!

She turned back to the elf, who regarded her with solemn eyes. She cleared her throat and continued to read.

Her rage simmered as the boy detailed what his life had been before coming to Hogwarts. Abuse, neglect, ignorance of magic, his parents and their world.

"Unacceptable!" she roared.

She gave pause as she reread that particular passage, at his clinical and detached tone, certain he was keeping things to himself. These relatives of his needed to be dealt with immediately.

She read about the Weasleys and Hermione Granger and Sirius Black.

Then she read that name - _Bellatrix LeStrange_ - and Augusta's furor knew no bounds.

She read with perverse pleasure as Potter explained how he had tried to cast the _Cruciatus_ curse on the bitch but had failed. As far as she was concerned, the point was that the effort had been made. That he had made her to suffer at all, for himself, for Black, for Neville, and for her grandson's parents, touched something deeply within her and she knew a satisfaction she thought would have been forever denied to her.

She shrugged off his guilt, though she hoped he would soon get over it and realize he had had little recourse. In fact, she suspected that he had included this bit of intelligence as a calculated manipulation to help sway her. Well, good for him! She admired cunning when it wasn't being employed for nefarious use, and this letter certainly indicated that Potter had a far more keen mind than that which had been publicized.

She read his doubts about Dumbledore and became further incensed. What if Voldemort had chosen Neville over Potter? What would Dumbledore have done to her grandson?

Oh, he wouldn't have taken Neville away as he had Harry, she never would have allowed it. But once Neville had matriculated at Hogwarts, she had no doubt that he would have been manipulated by that old man far worse than Potter had been. Neville was just too innocent, too guileless to have had the doubts Potter was experiencing, and she doubted Neville would have gone behind Dumbledore's back in the manner Potter now was. Too, she also knew that Neville simply wasn't powerful enough even to survive Voldemort, let alone defeat him.

Potter had somehow determined that she was on the Board of Governors, and was thus indirectly asking if she would keep an eye on Dumbledore. She would, of course, both for the boy and for Neville. In fact, she now realized she had been far too lax on the old man.

Now, she wondered about that.

When she truly _thought_ about the events of the last five years - of students disappearing, students and faculty being murdered, Death Eaters infiltrating the castle disguised as professors, and that horrible Umbridge woman - she knew that she, as well as the other Board members, had been far too complacent and too accepting of Dumbledore's excuses, which were well and truly pathetic.

Could he have been compelling them in some manner? Best to look into it, as well as to decide how to deal with Malfoy's vacancy now that the man was on the run.

Augusta sighed and closed her eyes. She felt compassion for what Harry Potter had been put through, both by Voldemort _and_ Dumbledore, but she also gave thanks that it had been him and not Neville. She felt no guilt for this. However, she also resolved to do whatever she could to help Harry from now on, because this was no longer just his fight. She would help him so that she could help Neville, and perhaps help herself to some long overdue vengeance for her son and his wife.

She turned back to the letter. "What!"

Voldemort was Riddle? That megalomaniacal murdering bastard was _Tom Riddle?_

And Dumbledore had _known_.

With shaking hands, she refolded the letter, placed it beside her, withdrew her wand, and cast _Incendio_. She then banished the ashes and turned back to the elf.

"Master Potter will have my answer by tomorrow," she curtly stated.

The elf bowed and disappeared.

Augusta Longbottom tented her fingers and considered things.

Potter was asking for help. She would give it.

He was asking for information. She would unearth it.

He was asking for an ally.

He had found one.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore woke early the morning following his conversation with Narcissa Malfoy and summoned the Heads of House to the Headmaster's office. As he instructed an unusually subdued Dobby to lay out a repast, the old man carefully examined his options, trying to decide as to what to inform his colleagues of these latest developments.

He had to give credit where it was due, and Narcissa Malfoy had proven herself to be incredibly shrewd in planning this venture. However, Albus also knew that he could not reveal to the staff the woman's involvement. Severus had never trusted her because she had never clearly stated her loyalties or opinions. Minerva had never liked Narcissa because of the woman's Houses: Black and Slytherin. Pomona had been hired after Narcissa had graduated and could have cared less.

The only professors who'd ever had anything good to say about the woman were Filius Flitwick and Horace Slughorn. Granted, Narcissa was incredibly intelligent, much more so than Lucius, and many had been surprised when she had agreed to the betrothal contract. Of course, many had also assumed - rightly - that she had been given no choice. Her best subjects had been Charms and Potions.

Albus had always suspected the woman had...ways...of controlling her husband.

He was already pressing his luck with Severus Snape. He had successfully installed the man as a spy in the service of Lord Voldemort, but also knew that Snape had personal ties with the Malfoy family, particularly with Lucius, with whom he had been close in school, and his son, Draco, of whom Snape was godfather.

Dumbledore was actually surprised that Narcissa hadn't first gone to Snape to play on that relationship and extract some vow of protection for Draco. This caused him to question just what else Narcissa might have gleaned of Severus and his activities, for she had never admitted the extent of her knowledge with regard to the man's actions.

Also sure to protest would be Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and Head of Gryffindor House. Eventually she would capitulate, believing him to know best, but she would question his every move and decision until she had suitable answers. She was incredibly tenacious, a credit to her House, and also extremely devoted to Harry Potter and any danger which might threaten his safety. While she was able to conceal that devotion quite brilliantly under the guise of intractable sternness, the woman had often taken it upon herself to serve as Harry's sentry with the adults of the Order of the Phoenix, and did so much more effectively than Molly Weasley.

Yes, Minerva McGonagall would ferret out any nonsense Albus might throw at her.

In fact, Dumbledore was beginning to wonder just how firm a grasp he had over the woman, finally deciding that perhaps it was not quite the one he had thought. That was a rather frightening realization.

So he decided to inform Snape and McGonagall of almost everything, for he would need their assistance were he to actualize this plan. However, additional measures would also be necessary. As for Filius Flitwick and Pomona Sprout, the respective Heads of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff Houses, Dumbledore was confident they would be accepting without being demanding.

The movement of the gargoyle outside his office heralded the arrival of the others, so he took his place behind his massive desk and adopted his trademark look of nonchalance. Predictably, Snape led the charge with McGonagall all but nipping at his heels. Flitwick and Sprout followed more sedately, but the looks of curiosity lighting their eyes was unmistakable.

"Dumbledore! What is the meaning of this summons?" Snape immediately complained. "I have much to do before the coming term and do not have to time to suffer one of your impossibly boring and pointless meetings."

McGonagall pursed her lips. "As if you are the only one whose attentions are not needed elsewhere."

Snape paused to sneer at the woman, who volleyed with a steely gaze. The Potions Master soon found something else at which to glare. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with merriment as he observed the interaction. Even a man as prickly as Severus Snape eventually checked his attitude around Minerva McGonagall.

The Headmaster steepled his fingers after indicating that the others should take their seats.

"I am concerned," he began, pouring tea for his faculty, "with the rather poor OWL results of those entering their sixth year."

The four teachers stared back at him with wide eyes.

"What do you mean?" McGonagall, the first to recover, demanded. "The scores of that class exceed all previous records!"

Albus shook his head. "Not quite. While it is true that we have a number of exceptional students, particularly Hermione Granger, Padma Patil, and Blaise Zabini, many more received substandard scores and I worry that the Board of Governors may take action."

"What kind of action?" barked an uneasy Snape.

He was now fearful of what this might mean for his Potions curriculum, as his tendency of learning through intimidation usually resulted in a rather poor showing on standardized tests. If the Board became involved and called into question his methods, his cover as a spy for Dumbledore might be blown.

His only true protection from Voldemort was that, as a member of the faculty and a Head of House, he was required to live on school grounds, thus the Dark Lord's access to him was somewhat restricted. However, if his damnable students had mucked it all up by actualizing their pathetic potential, his status might be compromised.

Albus looked at him harshly. "Yes, Severus, you have cause for worry, as once again Potions was amongst those subjects to earn the fewest OWLs."

Severus scowled.

"However," the old man qualified, "Mister Potter's surprising score will undoubtedly assist me in arguing with the Board to keep you on."

Snape was surprised. "And what was Potter's score?" he asked snidely, annoyed that he had yet to be informed.

"Exceeds Expectations for Theory and Outstanding for Practical," announced a pompous Minerva. "No thanks, I am sure, to your harassment and abuse. It just goes to show that when Potter isn't being terrorized and his work is being judged by an impartial party, his skill is quite remarkable." Her eyes narrowed. "I wonder, Severus, what I might discover should I examine Potter's past graded assignments for your class."

Snape rolled his eyes. "Honestly, woman! The way you kowtow to that boy and his friends is ridiculous and entirely inappropriate!"

McGonagall colored so darkly that a few of those present worried she might be having a heart attack.

"Rubbish!" declared an unusually annoyed Sprout. "Name one student to whom Minerva has ever showed favoritism, Severus. Do not blame her because your atrocious behavior toward Harry Potter hasn't caused him to crumble as you had so desperately hoped."

Snape raised an eyebrow, stunned that the normally placid woman had dared to speak to him in such a manner.

Sprout nodded, her gaze becoming rather vicious.

"We've all been watching you these past five years, Severus, and the _only_ reason we haven't interfered is at Dumbledore's insistence."

She paused and narrowed her eyes. "However, if you continue antagonizing that boy, action _will_ be taken. I have grown extremely tired of your obnoxious arrogance where Potter and his friends, particularly Neville Longbottom, are concerned. Merlin knows how many potential Potions Masters have turned to other fields because of your tactics, not to mention how many talented students also refrain from further studying Herbology due to the close nature of our specialties."

She slammed a closed fist down on her the palm of her free hand. "I refuse to suffer this anymore! You blame a _child _for the actions of the father he never knew! Grow up, Mister Snape, and either learn to do your _job_ or I will bypass Albus altogether and take my complaints directly to the Board, as I should have done years ago!"

Flitwick, McGonagall, and Dumbledore were all shocked by the outburst, but Sprout simply pursed her lips and indicated the Headmaster should continue.

"Yes," the dumbfounded man softly began, realizing he had made several errors in judgment, "well...yes. Thank you for your assessment, Pomona. Unfortunately, you are correct.

"Severus, I have been quite lenient with regard to your treatment of Harry, but that time is now over. If the Board does become involved and insists on an audit of past and present students, you must realize there is very little I will be able to do. Even my influence has limits.

"Indeed, it will soon again be time for Hogwarts to undergo the credentialing process and an international panel of evaluators will be installed to observe us. Therefore, it is advisable that you begin to treat Harry with the same loathing you have for all your students. Do not show him special treatment by any means, but no more will you actively engage in provoking him. Is that understood?"

The final sentence was posed in a tone so chilling, all those present were taken aback.

Severus said nothing, but his silence indicated compliance. He knew that while Dumbledore ran the school as he saw fit, he did have people to whom he must answer, and there were already a number of complaints on file against himself and the Headmaster. If an audit was ordered and Snape declared inept, Dumbledore might go down with him, and then Voldemort would have free rein over Hogwarts.

"Is that all?" McGonagall asked in her clipped tone.

"No," an annoyed Dumbledore replied. "The scores for Muggle Studies once again declined and the results for Divination, with one exception, were absolutely abysmal."

McGonagall and Snape both snorted. When it came to the subject of Divination and its teacher, Sybill Trelawney, they were in complete agreement.

The Headmaster indicated his wish for patience. "I am well aware of Sybill's reputation, both amongst the students and the faculty. Nevertheless, I have reasons for maintaining her position, which do include some prophecies she has made which have proven valid. However, Pomona's point about Severus' attitude toward his students also applies to Sybill."

McGonagall and Flitwick nodded. Snape was appalled that he could possibly have anything in common with that charlatan.

"We will never know how many potential Seers have rejected their callings because of Sybill's penchant for melodrama," Albus continued. "Hopefully the addition of Firenze will begin to counterbalance that. Similarly, the problem with Muggle Studies needs to be addressed, and rather quickly, as Professor Burbage has been insisting these past some years. As the Pureblood lines continue to thin, more and more of our matriculating students are Muggleborn and it is time we more closely examined their difficulties in adjusting to our world."

Minerva grunted. "This meeting is only a formality. You've already decided upon a course of action, correct?"

His eyes twinkled. The others sighed.

* * *

Harry Potter rose with the sun.

Dressing quickly, his eyes roamed over his small room, ensuring that everything of value had been packed the night before and locked away lest those whom others insisted were his family felt particularly nosy this day.

Hedwig was away, hopefully either at Hogwarts or the Burrow; Harry was rather rueful that he had no idea where his owl preferred to spend her time alone. He resolved to make more of an effort to understand his familiar. He owed her at least that much.

He was startled by a sudden insistent pecking at his window. Throwing an annoyed glance over his shoulder, he was surprised to see the blazing orange eyes of a rather official-looking owl glaring back at him. He trotted over and threw open the sash, but the bird did little more than sit on the sill and demand Harry relieve it of the post.

"My OWLs," he whispered.

He quickly detached the letter and offered the owl one of Hedwig's treats, which prompted the bird to look at him with suspicion and then dawning respect. It refused the treat but clucked at Harry with approval before flying away.

"Guess the Ministry doesn't want their owls taking food from other people," Harry mused. "Probably a good thing."

He looked down at the envelope in his hand and was suddenly wary. This would determine his opportunities for the future, providing he actually _had_ a future beyond Hogwarts, or even beyond this coming term. Grimacing, he sighed and decided he could wait until later to learn his fate. Perhaps he would ask Luna to read him his scores. At least then he wouldn't have to suffer in solitude.

Harry quickly made his bed and secured the locks on his trunk. He quietly exited the room and made his way across the hall to the upstairs bathroom. His only opportunity to bathe was while the Dursleys slept. With luck, he could complete his morning ablutions and be out the door before his porcine cousin Dudley was awakened by his breakfast cravings.

Surprised and a little giddy at his success, Harry didn't even bother to leave a note explaining his absence. He knew they wouldn't care; they were barely tolerating him as it was, despite his efforts to avoid them completely. Already they were dreading his return next summer. That dread was a better parting gift than anything else Harry could possibly offer.

Smirking, he exited the house and raced out toward the curb. He held out his wand and, before he could blink, that familiar whoosh of air signaled the arrival of the Knight Bus.

"Why it's 'Arry Potter, it is!" the driver crowed upon seeing the famous scar peeking through the fringe of black mop.

"Hullo," Harry said in a low voice. "I gather Stan is still in Azkaban?"

"Aye," the man grimly answered. "That troll Umbridge had him arrested and Fudge was too far up her wide arse to bother investigating the charges. If he had, he'd have known that Stan is no Death Eater! The man is barely able to put on his shoes!"

Harry sighed inwardly. In the panic surrounding Voldemort's _alleged_ return, the Ministry of Magic was rounding up hapless citizens on the say-so of anonymous tips and the murmurings of those who should be suspect. He hated to think of the hell someone like Stan Shunpike must be unjustly enduring in Azkaban. It only further resolved Harry to end this madness as soon as possible, before the persecutions turned to murders in the ensuing hysteria.

"Where to, Master 'Arry?" the driver queried.

"Diagon Alley."

"Right, then. Off we go!"

Harry chose a seat and threw a glance over his shoulder, nodding to a doddering old woman with violet hair and suspiciously familiar green eyes.

Tonks seemed incredibly put out that he had so easily discerned her ruse and Harry suppressed his smirk.

The bus tore off toward London and Harry briefly wondered if traveling by Knight Bus was any worse than traveling by portkey. Each sensation left him queasy and slightly sick.

As he wasn't meeting Luna until midday, he decided to tour Diagon Alley thoroughly, though he remained conscious of his friendly second shadow. It had been a while since he was allowed to explore unencumbered the wares of the best stores in wizarding Britain.

The Weasleys would be taking him and Hermione to the Alley prior to the start of the term in order to procure that year's supplies, but Harry wanted the opportunity for a little freedom between leaving his literal prison for a figurative one. Besides, perhaps he might stumble across something which would aid him in his newfound decision to get a life.

Harry watched impassively as the Bus tore down Charing Cross Road and came to a screeching halt before the Leaky Cauldron.

"Diagon Alley!" the driver called.

Harry sighed and hauled himself to his feet, making sure to thank the driver before exiting the bus.

He might have to face Voldemort, but he would do it, finally, on his own terms.

* * *

Luna Lovegood was happy. Of course, she usually was.

Even on this day, the sixth anniversary of her mother's death, she was happy, because her mother had long ago revealed to her the secret of contentment. Happiness wasn't something which one could demand or expect. It didn't seek you out and it wasn't a reward for good behavior or a job well done.

People were happy because they chose to be. It really was just that simple.

Most people didn't understand that, and Luna felt truly sorry for them. They were so wrapped up in the drudgery of mundane life, too busy existing rather than living, that the subtle mysteries of the world slipped past their notice.

She admired people like Hermione Granger who were so dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge, an admirable and worthy goal, but at the same time, Luna mourned for the Gryffindor girl who believed only in what books told her. She knew that Hermione had a well-developed sense of intuition, but it often went ignored in the face of logic and reason. That was such a shame.

Luna had realized a while ago that there were just too many unexplainable phenomena in the world, and wasn't it sad that people were so close-minded that they neglected these things? It must be terribly boring.

Then there were those like Ronald Weasley, genuinely kind and decent people who, for some reason, were simply unwilling to look past their visceral needs and desires. Ronald was a nice boy, but too easily trapped by irrationality and temper. He felt as if the world owed him simply because he demanded it did.

Not that selfishness was a bad thing in and of itself. Everyone was selfish to some degree, and it often inspired greatness, fueling the drive to confront and overcome those who sought to oppress others. People were often more willing to sacrifice and give of themselves when a friend or loved one was in peril, and the same held true for Ronald Weasley.

Still, his problem, as Luna saw it, was not lack of ambition, but one of laziness. He wanted so many things, but was unwilling to work for them. He wanted to be Harry Potter's best friend, but when the tide of public opinion would turn against Harry, so would Ronald. When Harry received something Ron himself wanted, he became sullen and jealous. When he did achieve something of note, he became pompous and arrogant. The Prefect position was a good example.

Luna knew that Ronald had neither the grades nor the leadership skills such a job demanded, and she knew Ronald was aware of this as well. She was also quite sure that the job had originally been intended for Harry, but either he had bypassed it and encouraged the Headmaster to give it instead to Ronald, or Dumbledore hadn't offered it, dismissing it as a distraction.

Ron was perfectly willing to ride the coattails of his friends and older brothers when it suited, but took offense when someone called him on it. Well, that was just ridiculous. He should and _would _ have been expelled from Hogwarts were it not for Harry and Hermione. Not that Ronald was stupid; quite the contrary, actually. He was simply one of those people who required constant attention and goading in order for him to take an interest in even the most important things, but then resented it when he was forced to comply. Silly, really.

Ronald and Hermione were good people, Luna knew, and good friends, but they didn't truly understand what a life like Harry's entailed. They relied too much on the advice and approval of others, when it was inefficient to do so. There were times which called for instinct, for proactive and reactive responses, and Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley were either unable or unwilling to think outside the proverbial box.

Harry was, however, and so was Luna. Therefore, she had decided they would make a good team.

Not that she intended to replace either Hermione or Ronald, of course, but merely to compensate for the areas in which they were severely lacking. Each had problems with trust, each indulged in spitefulness and envy, and while Luna had no doubt that each would give their lives for Harry, they rarely stopped to consider how their personalities affected their best friend. Harry needed their support, not their approval; he needed their friendship, not conditional toleration; he needed to believe that he had friends who were willing to listen to him and not beg off when his thoughts became too maudlin or discomforting.

Neither Ronald nor Hermione knew what it was to lose a parent. Luna hoped they never would, though she knew that was unlikely. Circumstances dictated in part one's outlook on life, and Ronald and Hermione simply didn't understand Harry's approach. Neither one had a prophecy hanging over their heads.

Luna paused in her thoughts and made a mental note to discuss with Harry that prophecy. She thought it purposefully vague and severely unhelpful. Of course, that it had been spoken by Trelawney probably had a lot to do with that.

She frowned. Trelawney had her talents, but they were not without flaw, and her Divination course was a lot of malarkey. If the woman truly knew how to read a Tarot deck, Luna would eat her roaring lion hat, though doing so would of course require mustard. Perhaps a spot of fennel, as well.

She sighed. Perhaps she was judging Ronald and Hermione too harshly, or possibly she was allowing their judgments and dismissals of her to color her perceptions. She didn't expect them to be perfect, of course, but she did believe Harry had the right to demand more of them as the friends they claimed to be. He was far too noble for his own good and had been all but abandoned by those who were supposed to protect and assist him.

Like Dumbledore.

Perhaps she had been remiss in confiding her own doubts of the man to Harry, but she truly didn't think so. Instead she believed she had merely voiced Harry's own suspicions and that he was happy to know he wasn't alone in having them.

Truly, why had Death Eaters been allowed access to Hogwarts? The wards should have kept them out. How had an illegal portkey slipped beneath the notice of so many accomplished professors? How was someone thought to be dead able to impersonate a retired Auror for almost an entire year?

There were too many things which didn't make sense and for which no one was providing acceptable answers. Maybe it was time to ask her father to step up the investigative journalism side of _The Quibbler_ and focus the lens firmly on what was _not_ being said.

Luna had enjoyed being part of Harry's illicit defense organization and was cemented in her belief that she had chosen the right side. Said side was not about light or dark, or good versus evil, for such things could not be qualified as easily as people insisted they should be.

She had chosen Harry and had never regretted it. Being back in the Ministry, however, had been painful and had forced her to confront things which she believed to have been dealt with long ago. That had not been the case, however, but she had become too invested in Harry to look back.

So she would help Harry stay alive and to have better relationships with his friends.

She would teach him to choose happiness for himself because he deserved it.

Oh, and she would help Harry defeat Voldemort, of course. The man really was quite a nuisance.

* * *

Harry blew through the pub and nodded a hello to Tom before exiting the back and tapping the pattern of bricks which would open the portal into the Alley.

He could sense Tonks behind him and resisted the impulse to turn around and wave at her again. He gathered there were other Aurors already stationed throughout the shopping district and he decided to make a game out of recognizing them and, if possible, making them work hard for their galleons.

He immediately set off for Gringotts Wizarding Bank, which shone like a beacon in the middle of the Alley.

He strode toward it with purpose and hoped his short legs pumped hard enough that Tonks had to struggle to keep up with him. He then felt malicious and guilty for attempting to put the Auror through her paces.

It wasn't as if Tonks had ever done anything to him, but he now found himself questioning how much of her friendly attitude toward him was genuine and how much was orchestrated by Dumbledore to compel him to trust her. Not that he distrusted her, necessarily, but Harry understood that her loyalty to the Headmaster superseded whatever affection she might have felt for him.

He threw open the door to the bank and nervously looked around. This was the first time he had come to Gringotts on his own to withdraw from his vault. He usually had either a faculty member or one of the Weasleys with him, or else Dumbledore had arranged for a transfer. Now, however, Harry was determined to understand his finances and plan accordingly.

"Harry!"

He turned to his left and a huge smile overtook his face as he caught sight of Bill Weasley strolling toward him.

Harry allowed himself to fantasize just for a moment. Bill's gloriously wavy copper hair was tied back into a neat ponytail. The obligatory snake fang earring - which, as far as Harry was concerned, was the epitome of coolness - was on display. The tall, tanned, and lithe body in snug clothes overlaid with an open robe which hinted at well-defined pectoral muscles and...

"Are you okay, Harry?" Bill asked, concern etched on his face. Seeing the flush, he brought a hand to the boy's forehead, wincing when Harry shivered. "Are you well?"

"Oh!" Harry squeaked. "Er, yeah, I'm fine. It's getting warm outside, you know."

Bill nodded but didn't appear quite convinced. "I was surprised to receive your letter last night." He decided to refrain from informing Harry that Dobby had interrupted he and Fleur at a most unwelcome moment. "Have you seen the twins yet?"

Harry shook his head. "No, but I'll probably pop over after I'm done here." He hesitated a moment and then dropped his eyes. "How are Ron and Ginny?"

"Worried," Bill admitted. "Especially Ron." He sighed. "Harry, I know you're not trying to be cruel, but it's been weeks since the end of last term and neither Ron nor Hermione has heard anything from you. They're desperately afraid you're going to do something...unhealthy. Ginny keeps advising them to leave you alone and allow you time, but..."

Harry sighed. "I know. And no, I'm not trying to be cruel." He blinked furiously. "I just...I need time to get my head together, to figure out how I'm going to move forward."

Bill gave him an inscrutable gaze before offering a brief nod. "I think you're coping remarkably well. It's always surprised me how easily others dismiss you despite all you've done. Don't worry, Harry. I won't say anything to anyone."

"Thank you," Harry whispered. He cleared his throat. "And Fleur? How is she?"

It was then Bill's turn to blush and for Harry to smirk. "She's well."

"Your parents? And, er, Charlie?"

Bill kept his face a blank as he finally recognized Harry's blush for what it was.

So, Charlie, was it? Well, he wasn't that surprised. The dragon thing seemed to fascinate everyone. It should certainly prove interesting if anything developed, given their age difference. In fact, Bill could hardly wait for his mother to offer her opinion on the matter, which she would do loudly and frequently. Finally, something which might deflect her attention from he and Fleur.

"All fine. Now, what can we help you with today?"

Harry launched into his list of requests.

* * *

Hermione danced around her room, clutching her scores in her hand yet terrified of opening them. What if they were good? What if they were bad? What if they were significantly better than those of Harry and Ron? Would they act differently around her? Despise her? She thought she might prefer that to quiet, seething hostility.

No. Rubbish. She knew both were proud of her grades and would continue to be. She was more nervous that Harry had done better than Ron, for Harry was the one person over whom Ron was continually jealous. For all their sakes, she hoped Ron had done well. Squaring her shoulders and hitching her breath, Hermione tore open the envelope and began to read.

* * *

**Ordinary Wizarding Level Results**

_**Hermione Jane Granger**_** has received:**

Ancient Runes ... (O)  
Arithmancy ... (O/O)  
Astronomy ... (O/O)  
Care of Magical Creatures ... (O/O)  
Charms ... (O/O)  
Defense Against the Dark Arts ... (O/O)  
Herbology ... (O/O)  
History of Magic ... (O)  
Muggle Studies ... (O)  
Potions ... (O/O)  
Transfiguration ... (O/O)

**Total OWLs Earned**: **19**

_Please note that there are varying determining factors in computing the final scores, not limited to but including raw magical power, strength of performance, length of spellcasting, and others. Those course which have both Theory and Practical portions have been assigned a score for each.  
_

Special Notes:

_Congratulations, _**Hermione Granger!**_ You have received perfect scores and more OWLs than any previous witch or wizard at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, save Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. You are hereby awarded the Governors' Award for Academic Excellence for your meritorious achievements! Information regarding the award ceremony will be delivered by owl at a later date.  
_

Class Standings:

1. Hermione Granger (Gryffindor)  
2. Padma Patil (Ravenclaw)  
3. Harry Potter (Gryffindor)  
4. Daphne Greengrass (Slytherin)  
5. Lisa Turpin (Ravenclaw)  
6. Susan Bones (Hufflepuff)

7. Blaise Zabini (Slytherin)

8. Justin Finch-Fletchley (Hufflepuff)  
9. Seamus Finnigan (Gryffindor)  
10. Ronald Weasley (Gryffindor)

* * *

Hermione collapsed on the edge of her bed, staring dumbly at the parchment in her hand. Nineteen OWLs. More than anyone in the history of the school save Dumbledore. Governor's Award. First in the class.

She suddenly realized she wasn't breathing and forced her lungs to inhale steadily until her respirations began to even. She then reread the letter.

Merlin! Harry was third in the class! Ron was tenth! This was wonderful! Even Ron could find no fault with these rankings.

Padma was a given. Not for the first time, Hermione wished she could trade in Parvati for her twin.

She really knew nothing about Daphne Greengrass other than that the girl had black hair, the exact shade as that of Harry, and startling aquamarine eyes. Greengrass was often seen in the company of her fellow Slytherins Tracey Davis and Lily Moon. She had never seen Daphne associate with Malfoy and his crowd, but appeared to be at least friendly with Blaise Zabini and Millicent Bulstrode. Her best subjects were purported to be History, Astronomy, and Arithmancy.

Hermione knew even less about Lisa Turpin. The girl had straight brown hair with bangs, dark brown eyes, and glasses. She was rarely seen outside of classes and meals in the Great Hall. When she wasn't alone, she kept company with Mandy Brocklehurst, also in Ravenclaw. Hermione had heard Lisa was a prodigy in Care of Magical Creatures and that Terry Boot had been trying to get her to notice him since third year.

She had expected Susan to make the Top Ten. The pride of her Hufflepuff class, Susan was outgoing and buoyant. A strawberry blond with piercing blue eyes, she was a well-rounded student who excelled in every class, but particularly Defense and Transfiguration. Based on that alone, Hermione was very surprised that Susan and Harry weren't better friends, though she had seen them talking on a few occasions. She also knew that Susan was one of the few Hufflepuffs to stand up for Harry during the Triwizard Tournament, even having a row over it with best friend Hannah Abbott.

Blaise was almost as unknown as Daphne Greengrass, though his mother was infamous. A swarthy Italian with light green eyes, he appeared to be the lone wolf of Slytherin House. He kept to himself and was very driven in his studies. When he was seen socializing, it was with Daphne Greengrass or Anthony Goldstein, of Ravenclaw. As she had a few classes with Blaise, Hermione could say without a doubt that he was one of the most natural potion makers she had ever seen.

Justin Finch-Fletchley was a wealthy Muggleborn with navy eyes and curly blond hair which looked spun from gold. He was quite intelligent and did well in all subjects, much like Susan Bones, though he also had a penchant for gossip and was exceedingly naive. He was always the first to believe any rumor as fact, which often led to awkward situations and numerous apologies. Like her, he had been petrified by the basilisk in their second year.

Justin was also openly gay and being chased by Zacharias Smith. Hermione had heard from Ernie MacMillan, a pompous Hufflepuff who believed himself more intelligent than anyone else, that Smith was given his own room in the dorms because he was constantly harassing Justin. She could well believe that of Smith, who was perhaps even more arrogant than Draco Malfoy. Smith claimed to be directly descended from Helga Hufflepuff and thus felt the entire house should follow his whims.

She was absolutely _thrilled_ that Smith had failed to make the Top Ten. She fully expected him to lodge a formal complaint and then gripe to anyone who would listen that he was either incorrectly scored or that the exams were biased towards the stupid. It drove him nuts that she always bested him and she took malicious glee in that fact. His shenanigans at the DA meetings last year had endeared him to no one and she was fairly certain that if Harry continued the club this year, he would ban Smith from participating.

Most of what went on in Hufflepuff stayed within Hufflepuff, but Ernie, who could never keep his mouth shut about anything and seemed to think she was his confidante, had blabbed to her that Smith had been smugly pleased by Cedric Diggory's death and expected to be named the new king of the House. When he had the audacity to announce this in their common room, Susan Bones had beaten him to within an inch of his life. It had taken four seventh year boys to pull her off him and Pomfrey had spent the entire night tending to Smith's injuries. According to Ernie, when Pomfrey was told why Smith was in her care, she became very conservative with her pain-relieving potions.

At least Ernie had enough sense not to repeat that story to Harry, for had Harry learned of what Smith had said, he might have just killed the tosser. She knew that Harry would never get over Cedric's death, and she thought it reprehensible that no one on the faculty had thought to get him counseling. After all, he had witnessed his friend and fellow student murdered right in front of him! She had sent a letter to Dumbledore suggesting that he look into Harry seeing a Mind Healer, but had received no response.

It was Harry and a few Hufflepuffs, led by Susan, who kept Cedric's memory alive at Hogwarts.

She was absolutely stunned by Seamus' standing. She was unable to reconcile the idea that the loud, mouthy, fun-loving boy she knew could have any academic ambition at all. Of course, she never really spoke with Seamus and thus had no idea what scores he earned in their classes. She didn't know his favorite class or professor. What she did know what that his best friend was Dean Thomas, he loved Quidditch, had a penchant for rum, and relentlessly chased Lavender Brown.

Seamus was absolutely adorable and thoroughly charming, though he had been an obnoxious git last year. Harry, however, had discouraged both her and Ron from returning Seamus' cruelty. Harry understood that Seamus, a fellow half-blood, was terrified by Voldemort's return. Seamus' mother was a blood traitor and his father a Muggle. The Finnigan family was likely to be near the top of the list of Death Eater targets, and Harry didn't begrudge Seamus his justifiable fears.

Seamus and Lavender were dear friends who flirted constantly but never took things further than a few kisses. It was common knowledge that Seamus was somewhat of a lothario who had lost his virginity in his third year to a sixth year Hufflepuff. He was also not discriminating in his choice of partners. He had dated Parvati Patil and then Stephen Cornfoot for a time in their fourth year. Last year, Seamus had an affair with Justin Finch-Fletchley and then got together with Morag McDougal. By the end of the year, he had moved on to Roger Davies, who was far more invested in their alleged relationship than Seamus appeared to be.

Seamus was a serial monogamist who was rarely unattached, though his attachments didn't last for any significant length of time. Hermione had even seen him cozying up to the Weasley twins on more than one occasion, and she had never seen them turn Seamus away. She wasn't sure what that meant and was pretty sure she didn't want to know.

She was waiting for the day Seamus made a play for Harry, if only to see how awkward Harry would be.

She was ecstatic that Ron had finished tenth but wasn't quite sure how he had managed it. Certainly Ron was intelligent, but he was also lazy and only studied when absolutely necessary. He was abysmal in Potions and not simply because Snape bullied him; he just had no natural aptitude for the subject. Harry did, but Snape would never condescend to grade him fairly. Ron was decent at Charms, slightly better in Transfiguration, excelled in Care of Magical Creatures, often fell asleep in Astronomy, completely ignored History, and was one of the top Defense students. She knew he made up his answers for Divination homework.

She gave a mild shrug. She could only assume their group revisions had served Ron well.

She then began to panic.

She was already openly shunned by many of her fellow students, albeit not those in Gryffindor House, but most were hostile toward her because of her high grades. She knew that once the number of OWLs she had received, more than any other student in the school's history save one, was made known, the scorn would be even worse.

Of course, that disdain stemmed mostly from Ravenclaws and boys from all houses, all of whom thought they should be at the top of the heap. Still, Hermione had enough sense to know there was no purpose in concealing her abilities. She was proud of them and wasn't about to surrender them simply because they made others spiteful, especially Draco Malfoy.

She was slightly insecure, however, because she knew that her record could easily be beaten this coming year by Luna Lovegood. The only reason Luna hadn't before met or surpassed Hermione as the best student in the school was simply because Luna was uncaring about her academic performance and took less classes than Hermione herself.

While Hermione had to work for her grades, magic, both theory and practical, came quite easily to Luna, and Hermione suspected this was the true cause of most of her resentment toward the younger girl. She knew it was childish and petty but was unable to move beyond it, which left her feeling frustrated and guilty.

Too, Hermione knew that Harry had the ability to move beyond both she and Luna when it came to scores. She was so proud of him for ranking third in the class, but she knew he could do much better. She knew he could have beaten her, and the only reason he hadn't was because he had slacked off in classes for years and his revisions weren't very comprehensive. Not that he didn't have mitigating circumstances for slacking off, of course, but still.

The reason so many people insisted Harry Potter was one of the most powerful wizards in Britain was because it was true. She had seen enough of it that it could not be dismissed as either rumor or propaganda. However, when it came to schoolwork, Harry simply couldn't be bothered to apply himself, only doing the minimum amount of work to scrape by. She constantly harped on him about it and didn't apologize when he accused her of being like Snape, for this was one issue on which Hermione didn't mind being compared with the Potions professor. There truly was no limit to what Harry could accomplish if he put his mind to it.

He would excel brilliantly in Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. Harry was incredibly logical and, once the rules were explained, could put pieces together faster than anyone, including herself. On the one hand, anyone not living up to their potential annoyed her greatly; but on the other, in a deep part of her subconscious of which she was ashamed, she secretly delighted that she was able to beat Harry at something.

It troubled because it meant she was no better than Ron when it came to competing with Harry, even though Harry remained in the dark about what sometimes motivated Hermione to push herself so hard in her studies.

She often wondered why Harry held back so much. Sometimes she attributed it to his fear of failure or being indirectly responsible for hurting someone for whom he cared. At other times, she believed that he restrained himself so that those around him could find their own personal success.

After the years he spent as the Dursleys' slave gardener, Harry was only slightly less talented in Herbology than Neville Longbottom, and Professor Sprout liked Harry immensely. Still, he shied away and let Neville shine, because Harry understood Neville needed it more than him.

Hermione had been frankly astonished when Ron was made Prefect and later she endlessly wondered if it was because Harry had turned it down. Harry had denied her accusations fervently, but she had sensed he was holding something back. She wouldn't have put it past Dumbledore to give Ron something to call his own at Harry's expense. Every single Gryffindor in her year, as well as several above and below, had come to her last year to ask why Ron was Prefect and not Harry. She couldn't tell them because she didn't know.

And then there was Quidditch last year. Harry had pushed for Ron to be given a spot on the team and Ron had turned out to be a dreadful player until Harry was banned from the sport. Once free from Harry's shadow, Ron crawled out from beneath it and carved a niche for himself. Harry had said nothing, but Hermione had seen his eyes ringed with both pride and sadness. Harry never spoke of Ron's jealousy of him, but she knew it wounded him deeply. Harry had long ago decided that Ron's happiness was more important than his own.

That made Hermione very, very angry.

There were times that Hermione believed Harry was terrified he would succeed and defeat Voldemort. What would become of the Boy Who Lived to Triumph? And how many lives would be lost or irrevocably altered in the process? How much more could Harry be pushed before he finally snapped?

She had to pack. She had to get to Ron so they could start planning on how to deal with their best friend.

* * *

Almost three hours later, Harry had left the bank and a shell-shocked and furious Bill Weasley, to try and begin to process what he had learned. He finally decided to wait and unpack it later, as well as plan how much he would reveal and to whom he would entrust this information, even piecemeal. Especially Ron and Hermione.

He wandered about Diagon Alley to clear his head and considered it with newfound eyes. He hadn't explored the majority of the stores; he didn't even know most of their wares. He threw a surreptitious glance toward Knockturn Alley before dismissing it. He couldn't justify his curiosity, and if he ever found reason to venture down it's dark path, he would wait for an escort. Of course, he was sure that had he made for the path, Tonks or another Auror would have stood in his way. He sighed.

He then halted, breathed deeply, and tried to remember his first visit here with Hagrid, when the wizarding world had been just revealed to him, heralding an unimaginable future and the belief that he might soon have a life which ceased to suck. Hagrid had given him Hedwig, his first ever birthday present, and that day Harry had made two new friends. He had also met Draco Malfoy.

Harry began moving again, but his mind was firmly clamped around the vision of an eleven-year-old peroxide blond who now arrested his thoughts.

Sometimes Harry wondered what his life would have become if he had taken Malfoy's hand that day on the Express. Would he have been able to maintain his friendship with Ron while forging something new with Draco?

He supposed the answer was no, for he had come to know both boys too well. Ron would never have stayed at his side had Harry made any attempt to befriend Draco - or any Slytherin, for that matter - for the blond's cutting insults and vicious behavior were more than almost anyone, other than a Slytherin, could bear. As for Draco, Harry knew how his rival reveled in the power of manipulation. He would have subtly but constantly discouraged Harry's friendships with Ron and Hermione, and isolated him to the point where he would have had no one but Draco on whom to rely. He shuddered at the thought.

Still, at other times, Harry honestly felt sorry for Draco. As far as he could discern, the little ferret had been given a raw deal in the parental department. Lucius was nothing but a bastard, and Narcissa, though Harry had only briefly met her once seemed more concerned about appearances than her child. Of course, appearances could often be deceiving.

He wondered which was worse: having no parents or having Draco's parents. He thought about that as he made a circuitous route around Diagon Alley, window shopping all the while.

That notion soon segued into another: was Draco his miserable self because of conditioning or because he was just inherently an insufferable brat? How much of his behavior was his attempt at becoming a carbon copy of Lucius, and how much was Draco simply following instinct? There were times where Harry was positive he saw Draco thinking hard about the consequences of his actions but taking the expected route anyway. Were that true, Draco was weaker than Harry had previously considered.

He had spent a lot of the past six years thinking about Draco Malfoy. Some of his friends considered it an obsession, but his and Draco's adversarial relationship couldn't be so easily qualified. It was difficult not to consider someone who made it their personal mission to destroy you. Every time Harry turned around, Draco was in his face, making snide comments about his appearance, his parents, and his friends, particularly Hermione. Harry understood that part of the vitriol Draco reserved for Hermione was because she bested him in every class, and Draco was nothing if not proud of his alleged intelligence.

Harry snickered. "If only he'd use his powers for Good."

Still, did Draco have any more viable choices in his life than Harry himself had? Draco was raised to be a Death Eater and a proud Slytherin. He was bred to be cunning, cold, and calculating; by all accounts, he had succeeded brilliantly. He believed himself better than everyone because he had been told from birth that it was true, so it was partially understandable that, when confronted with someone like Hermione, who clearly _was_ smarter, Draco would become enraged.

And then there was Draco's relationship with Ron. It would be comical if it wasn't so violent. While Harry didn't have a problem defending himself either verbally or physically, Ron always reduced his every interaction with Draco to fisticuffs. Ron had grown considerably since first year and now towered over both Harry and Draco; years of Quidditch training with his brothers and then making the house team had lent solid muscles to Ron's once lanky frame.

"Don't think about Ron's muscles!" he chastised himself.

Ron had grown into a young man who was very physically intimidating and, while Ron had yet to fully assimilate that fact, he nevertheless resorted to brawling when he or his were threatened. It scared Draco, because the boy knew he would be helpless in a physical fight. Hell, Draco nearly wet his pants and sobbed when Hermione had slugged him, a hit with Harry and Ron had quickly deemed _The Punch Felt Round the World_.

Hermione and Ron, just by the virtue of being themselves, had deepened the hatred Draco felt for them, which had blossomed simply because of their connection to Harry. It was stupid and selfish and immature, but Draco Malfoy was all those things. Harry questioned what would happen to Draco if and when he was confronted with the decision of being his father's man or his own.

Either way, he had yet another reason to dread the start of the coming term.

* * *

Hermione sat alone on her parents' sofa - she no longer felt as if her childhood home was truly hers - waiting for her escort and contemplating things. She was both excited by and tremulous at her impending reunion with Ron, and soon with Harry, and her guts twisted in a knot at being confronted with Molly Weasley's open hostility, which was only marginally better than Ginny's passive-aggressive stance on All Things and People Concerned with Harry Potter.

She sighed.

She had already completed all of her summer homework and there was little to do until the Weasleys took them to Diagon Alley for their supplies. She already had procured, and read through, next year's texts. Therefore, she was looking not so forward to six weeks of uncomfortable chatter mixed with equally uncomfortable silences.

Hermione had determined, however, that once she arrived at the Burrow, she was going to make a beeline toward Ron and settle things once and for all: her feelings for him, his for her, and their feelings for Harry. As the latter wasn't due to arrive for almost a month, Hermione figured she had a solid week to confront and then settle Ron on the important issues, hopefully skirting Molly's iciness, Ginny's stares, and the twins' pranks. Then she would have at least three weeks to break down Ron's defenses.

The real question was how was she to approach Ron so that he didn't immediately blow his top or didn't retreat inside his mind and withdraw? Sometimes Hermione wondered if Ron had learned that little tactic from Harry.

_Harry_.

She saw his green eyes in her mind's own.

How could anything that startling shade of green exist in nature? Everyone likened them to emeralds, but that wasn't true at all. They _were_ like jewels, but Harry's eyes were the color of Russian diopside - a translucent dark green that was cool and remote. Threads of peridot were visible in the irises if Harry allowed you close enough to see. His eyes took in everything: every person in the room, every step on the staircase, every book on the shelf.

Harry was perhaps the most observant person she had ever known, but he often didn't speak of what it was he saw. She now wondered just what that was.

She felt silly, sitting there daydreaming about Harry's eyes, knowing that everyone fawned over said eyes while Harry himself thought they were nothing special.

His mother's eyes. That's what everyone in the wizarding world had told Harry; he looked exactly like his father, except for his eyes, which were the legacy of his mother, Lily.

Poor Harry. How could he hope to become his own person when his mere presence reminded people of his long-dead parents?

Harry was like a living, breathing echo of two of the wizarding world's most beloved heroes, and all of the adoration and affection and expectation once ascribed to James and Lily Potter had been foisted onto their only child. And Harry _was_ still a child, despite all of his accomplishments and the hormones running amok amongst all of them. He was curious mixture of innocent and ancient, naive about so many things, but also incredibly world weary.

The rest of Harry appeared in her mind. A jaw so strong and defined that she was sure it could shatter buildings; lips thin yet preposterously voluptuous; hair that was so wild, it grew in tufts rather than centimeters.

She had touched that hair a few times, accidentally, and had allowed her fingers to hesitate just a fraction longer than necessary. She was amazed at how soft it was, at its thickness, and all she wanted to do was run her fingers lazily through it until he, she, or both of them purred with contentment.

Harry was still ridiculously thin and, while he had a few growth spurts since she had known him, he was quite short compared to their classmates. Hermione suspected this had more to do with Harry enduring malnutrition at the hands of his vulture relatives than any genetic predisposition. It wasn't enough for them to starve his soul, they also had starved his body. She wondered if he would ever attain the stature he was owed. Five years of Quidditch had transformed Harry's scrawny frame into one which was wiry and roped with lean muscle, but still quite slight.

Hermione barely stopped herself from drooling at the thought of Harry's powerful thighs, about the way they gripped a broom, perhaps indicating how they might grip a woman. She shuddered and exhaled deeply.

Harry exuded more presence than people much taller than he. When he walked into a room, people literally stopped everything, even breathing, to notice. It wasn't just the legend of the Boy Who Lived or that he was the Potter heir. It was something inherent in him, something magnetic which drew people's attention like moths to flame. He was arresting.

Ron was just as potent, but in different ways. He had the height for which Harry longed, sprouting to over six feet last year. He was also thin, but unlike Harry, Ron was slender and not slight. His blue eyes were just as remarkable as Harry's green, especially with that shock of carroty red hair which adorned his head.

While Harry sought to hide himself from his throng of fans, Ron tried desperately to free himself from the reality of his family. He wanted to be _Ron_, not simply another Weasley. Not that Ron was ashamed of his family, of course, it was just that he wanted to carve out his own identity. Only too late Ron had realized that he had emerged from one shadow only to step into that of one which loomed far greater.

Still, Hermione realized, that was a choice Ron had made, and he must obviously have felt a great deal toward Harry to have stayed at his side these past six years, so she didn't waste time feeling sorry for him.

The only person other than she who seemed to have such effect on Ron and Harry was Draco Malfoy.

Unlike the two former, the latter was all too aware of his beauty. Hermione was not so far gone that she was unable to admit, albeit grudgingly, that Malfoy was better looking than he had a right to be. However, he was not without his flaws. Hermione had offered, and her female friends had agreed, that Malfoy's chin was too pointed and his face too pinched, lending him that skeevy inbred look all too common amongst many Purebloods.

Yet Malfoy's silky platinum hair managed to soften his otherwise sharp features, lending him an almost elfin quality. Hermione posited that this was due to his Veela heritage, however slight. Although, whereas Veela tended to engender sexual desire in all those who cross their paths, Malfoy was instead gifted with a bizarre charisma which made people take notice of him.

At times, Hermione believed that Malfoy and Harry fought each other a little too much. Everyone had their rivalries, but the two boys had an unnatural - and rather unsettling - need to interfere with each other as much as possible. If Malfoy wasn't keeping tabs on Harry through his sycophants, than Harry was - via his Invisibility Cloak - obsessively stalking Malfoy, desperately trying to catch the boy in some convoluted scheme. It was as if they simply couldn't separate themselves. It was all rather unnerving.

It was tiring even to watch them. Hermione could only imagine the energy such a poisonous relationship had on its occupants.

Suddenly, an old Muggle phrase popped into her head: there's _a thin line between love and hate_.

She managed not to vomit, though it took considerable effort.

* * *

"You know," Ginny began, "the more you stare at it, the longer you're going to continue freaking out."

"I'm not freaking out!" Ron squealed, his baritone suddenly a tenor.

"Of course you're not," she murmured, patting his hand.

Molly kept a watchful eye on the two from the kitchen, a small smile on her face. She was just as anxious as Ron, but she would wait until he was ready to read his scores. She knew he was desperately worried that he was going to let down both her and his father, as well as being resigned to his belief that he would never do as well as his brothers. Percy's record spoke for itself, and both Charlie and Bill, who had become Head Boy, had exceeded even their own expectations.

Many people would have been surprised at how well the twins had done, but Molly hadn't been; she knew they were brilliant but merely had a different focus than their siblings. She had no doubt that Ginny would do very well next year; she was already ranked high in her class.

Molly understood that it was hardest for Ron, who had grown up in his brothers' shadows before finally receiving his letter, only to then become eclipsed by Harry. Still, she knew that was a choice Ron had made and, if he regretted it, which she doubted he did, he had only himself to blame. She was quite sure Harry had done well, but knew both them would be outshined by Hermione, which frankly was how it should be; the girl worked hard for her success.

"Oh, for goodness sake," Ginny exclaimed, "if you don't open them, I will!"

Ron sighed and passed her the envelope. She plucked it out of his fingers, gave him a quick look, and then ripped it open. She then proceeded to blank her face and draw out the suspense, making the occasional clucking sounds and raising her brows.

"Well?" he demanded.

She said nothing, wanting to make him suffer. It was her duty as his only sister.

"Ginny!" he roared.

"Hermione is ranked first in your class."

"Well of course she is," Ron said, inclining his head.

"Harry is third."

At this, Ron quirked an eyebrow. "Huh. I have to admit I'm somewhat surprised, but not too much. Harry always manages to pull it out at the last minute."

"Are you okay?" she quietly asked, trying to keep her annoyance in check. If her brother was going to be jealous of Harry, she had no time for it.

He looked at her. "I really am. I'm happy for him. Harry's...suffered. I don't begrudge him good marks, and if he could pull those off after all that's happened to him, he's earned them." He suddenly became overly defensive. "Besides, Harry Potter is not stupid."

Molly beamed with pride.

Ginny cleared her throat. "Well, it seems there's a new record in the Weasley family."

Ron groaned. "For what? Most classes failed? Least OWLs earned?"

"No," she said smugly, "most OWLs earned."

Ron blinked. "What?"

Molly gasped.

"You beat Percy, Ron. You got one more than him! Sixteen OWLs, Ronniekins!" she screeched, standing up and throwing herself into her brothers arms. "Sixteen!"

"You can't be serious!" he sputtered.

"Oh, I'm quite serious," she said nonchalantly, releasing him with little fanfare. "You also got the highest score on the practical for Divination. The highest score _ever_. In the history of the school. You're getting an award!"

He grabbed the parchment from her hand and began reading.

* * *

**Ordinary Wizarding Level Results**

_**Ronald Bilius Weasley**_** has received:****  
**

Astronomy ... (A/A)  
Care of Magical Creatures ... (E/O)  
Charms ... (A/E)  
Defense Against the Dark Arts ... (O/O)  
Divination ... (O/O)  
Herbology ... (E/E)  
History of Magic ... (P)  
Potions ... (A/A)  
Transfiguration ... (E/E)

**Total OWLs Earned: 16**

_Please note that there are varying determining factors in computing the final scores, not limited to but including raw magical power, strength of performance, length of spellcasting, and others. Those course which have both Theory and Practical portions have been assigned a score for each._

Special Notes:

_Congratulations, _**Ronald Weasley**_! Your exceptional score on the Divination practical portion of the OWL exam is the highest in Hogwarts History, and we are pleased to inform you that you have received the Eye of Horus, which has not been awarded for the past two centuries. Information regarding the award ceremony will be delivered by owl at a later date.  
_

Class Standings:

1. Hermione Granger (Gryffindor)  
2. Padma Patil (Ravenclaw)  
3. Harry Potter (Gryffindor)  
4. Daphne Greengrass (Slytherin)  
5. Lisa Turpin (Ravenclaw)  
6. Susan Bones (Hufflepuff)

7. Blaise Zabini (Slytherin)

8. Justin Finch-Fletchley (Hufflepuff)  
9. Seamus Finnigan (Gryffindor)  
10. Ronald Weasley (Gryffindor)

* * *

"Not very many Os," Ron said quietly.

"So what!" Ginny exploded. "You got sixteen OWLs! You're getting an award! You're tenth in your class, Ron! Who cares about bloody Os? Stop being ignorant!"

"Well, my Potions score means I won't be able to become an Auror." He struggled with a curious mixture of disappointment and relief.

"And? Tell me, Ron, how much of you wanting to be an Auror is actually about _wanting_ to be one, and how much is about you wanting to be with Harry?"

Ron's blush merely confirmed everything she had suspected, about the Auror thing and so much more. In an instant, she understood what five years of subtle hints had never been able to accomplish: Harry Potter had never been hers. She had thought that giving him his space and dating other boys to make him jealous would make him see that she was the girl for him, but now she knew that had been fantasy.

If he did indeed want a girl, it wasn't her, and if he wanted a Weasley, it was Ron.

She suppressed a sigh. Truthfully, she had always known Harry would end up with either Ron or Hermione; she just hadn't wanted to admit it.

Molly also raised an eyebrow at the nonverbal admission and stifled a sigh, realizing that the Trio was bound by just more than an impossibly strong friendship. Part of her was worried, of course, but it was tempered by an even greater and puzzling sense of peace. She gathered she could toss the preliminary wedding plans she had made for Harry and Ginny.

She then smirked. Or perhaps she could cross out her daughter's name and substitute that of her son. Either way, a Potter-Weasley wedding would be welcome.

"Maybe Harry doesn't even want to be an Auror anymore," Ginny said softly. "That night in the Ministry probably changed a lot of things for him."

"What do you mean?" Ron asked.

Molly stilled her movements and craned her neck, anxious for whatever insight Ginny was about to afford. If she was going to help Harry, she needed whatever information she could get her hands on, and Ginny had always been observant. Sometimes, too much so.

"Ron, Sirius was an Auror, and a good one. He wasn't even given a trial. None of his colleagues or supervisors insisted that he be given Veritaserum. Where was the loyalty?" she demanded.

"Yes," she continued, "the Aurors catch bad wizards, but they're ultimately under the control of the Minister, despite whatever other allegiances they might have, like Tonks to Dumbledore. We all saw how Fudge manipulated his employees, the press, and the whole wizarding world to suit his whims. Why would Harry want to be a part of that? Because Sirius was an Auror? Because his father was a Hit Wizard?"

She shook her head. "I think Harry wanted to be an Auror because he believed he _should _be, as if it were expected of him because of who he is. Well, bollocks to that! Harry's mother wasn't one, Hermione won't be one, and you know how much it bothers Harry that the Ministry treats Dad so poorly. I doubt he's going to be rushing to join up any time soon."

He frowned in thought. "You think so?"

"I do, but the bottom line is that you've done incredibly well, Ron. It never mattered what Bill or Charlie or Percy got on their exams. You're not them, and no one wants or expects you to be." She hugged him again. "I'm so proud of you," she whispered fiercely, kissing the top of his head.

Ron felt a lump form in his throat as he awkwardly embraced his sister. "Thanks, Gin," he warbled.

He was unsurprised when he felt another hand on his shoulder, and threw back his head to find his mother smiling down at him.

* * *

Harry clutched his newly-filled money pouch in his sweaty hand and hesitantly walked into Madam Malkin's.

He had been surprised and secretly pleased when he had donned a robe last night only to discover that he had grown slightly. Not much, to be sure, but two inches for Harry Potter was almost a foot for anyone else.

He supposed he should resign himself to the fact that he would never be as tall as his friends and, that when he finally reached seventh year, those who didn't know him would assume he was still in his fourth. Still, he figured there were worse things than being small for one's age. He was in general good health, he had good friends, and he was alive.

He flashed again on Sirius and Cedric, but refused to cry. He wanted to move forward, though he knew he could never stop looking back. He guessed he had to settle for moving sideways. Some direction was better than none, and retreat had never been an option.

Right. So he needed new robes. Hopefully, he wouldn't be running into anyone he knew. He carefully opened the door to the shop, wincing at the loud bell which signaled his arrival, but he was relieved when he saw no other customers. A harried woman rushed out from the back of the store, a tape measure hung over her shoulders and pulling pins out of her cuffs.

"Oh, Mister Potter! I haven't see you for quite some time. How have you been?"

"Very well, Madam, thank you, and you?"

Delighted by his manners, she proceeded to prattle on about events and people of which he had no idea, but he nodded in the appropriate places and offered small smiles. Placated, she rushed on and asked what she could help him with today.

"Er, actually," Harry began, "I could use some of everything, but you only sell robes, correct?"

She blinked. "I specialize in robes, but I can easily throw together a new wardrobe should you require one."

"I've grown!" he chirped, before blushing.

She gave him a gentle smile. "I can tell." She chuckled as his flush became deeper. "All right, then, shall we begin? Do you have any preferences for colors?"

"I have no idea," he said ruefully. "Fashion is not exactly my, er, thing."

She raised an eyebrow. "I see. Well, why don't you leave everything to me? After we're done, we can," she paused as she surveyed with disdain the clothes he was wearing, "_Incendio_ your current ensemble."

Harry beamed.

* * *

After leaving Madam Malkin's, Harry shuffled further down the sidewalk and entered Flourish and Blott's to peruse their collection.

He had decided that perhaps he should take a lesson from Hermione and start building a personal library. He wasn't particularly averse to reading; indeed, it was an activity in which he had once sought refuge. When he was younger, it had always been safer to have his nose buried in a book rather than paying too much attention to what was going on in the Dursley house.

Of course, the unanticipated offshoot was that his grades had started to climb past Dudley's, which was strictly disallowed. So Harry had abandoned his pastime in favor of disappearing inside his head, a practice in which he still frequently indulged, much to his friends' chagrin. Over time, he had lost interest in learning new things which might inadvertently place him in unwanted competition with cousin. At Hogwarts, reading for pleasure wasn't a luxury often afforded him.

Now, however, he could afford both literally and figuratively to absorb as much information as he could get his hands on. No matter how impressive the library at Hogwarts, he doubted that its walls contained every parchment about magic that had been written. Too often he had found school texts to be overly verbose and daunting. Such tomes excited Hermione, who viewed them as a puzzle to be unlocked, but Harry felt that authors could have imparted their wisdom more effectively with less fanfare and more focus. Granted, he had never truly excelled at theory, but once he truly understood something, he knew it for life and could then replicate and build upon that knowledge.

He slipped inside the bookstore and immediately headed to the Defense section but quite soon found it lacking. Obviously the shop catered to the general populace, while he needed more specialized information. The problem, of course, was that he had no idea where to begin his search. He thought about asking the proprietor to order for him specific materials, but he presumed that would entail inviting questions he didn't wish to answer, as well as alerting both Dumbledore and stray Death Eaters as to what he was trying to accomplish. For all he knew, the Ministry illicitly tracked what people bought; he certainly wouldn't put it past them.

That decided, Harry made up his mind to search out instead books to help him catch up on what he should have been learning these past five years, books which would break down the material so that he might more easily absorb it. He doubted he was the only one who didn't care for theory.

Harry wandered from display to display and made note of several works which caught his eye. He wasn't yet ready to buy anything, and he kept an eye on the clock on the wall so that he wouldn't be late meeting Luna at Fortescue's. He hemmed and hawed for almost an hour, internally debating possible purchases. He was rather surprised at the number of books which detailed magic of which he was unaware.

Well, he supposed that made sense. Hogwarts was a school of wizardry, not an institution which taught the mysteries of all sentient magical creatures. He failed to understand why this was so; after all, magic was magic, wasn't it? Was it really so compressed and compartmentalized that only certain forms worked for certain groups? Were that the case, wouldn't Muggleborns, half-bloods, and purebloods be instructed differently?

No, there had to be baseline principles, regardless of type. Purebloods like Malfoy knew different spells because such things remained in the family and Purebloods were taught from an earlier age.

Well, it was time for him to expand his mind, wasn't it?

He made another circuitous round of the store, tossing books into his basket with aplomb. Centaurs, goblins, merfolk, Veela; as many histories of various species as he could get his hands on, making a mental note to ask Dobby about house elf magic at a later date. He also picked up a few manuals on wizarding law, figuring that if Fudge was going to continue to harass him, he'd do well to know the guidelines within which he could retaliate.

It was unfair of him to use Hermione as a gofer simply because he was put off by doing a bit of research on his own. He absently wondered how much of these topics had been covered in History of Magic before realizing he had no idea. Honestly, what was Dumbledore thinking having Binns as the History professor? Yet another addition to the long list of questions Harry doubted he would ever ask.

Taking his selections to the counter, he offered a customary grimace after the clerk totaled the purchases. Truthfully, he was surprised at how little they cost; he had been expecting much more. Those purchases which Harry thought it best to conceal he asked the clerk to shrink down so that he might place them within his robes. After stowing them with the shrunken sheaves of documents given to him by the goblins, Harry parted with the requisite galleons and took his leave.

* * *

As he once again stood before Flourish and Blott's, Harry realized it best to pick out a birthday gift for Hermione. It was true he still had almost two months to consider a final purchase, but he thought he should begin looking. He wanted to give her something different than the usual book or Honeyduke's chocolates. He thought two gifts were in order, one practical and the other whimsical, or as whimsical as one could get with Hermione.

Frowning in thought, he turned to his left and found himself in front of the stationery shop. Deciding he could use more ink and quills, he entered and quickly made his selections, but before he could pay, he noticed a display for a new product.

"Excuse me," he politely said to the clerk. "Could you tell me a bit about these, please?"

The young man behind the counter smiled winningly at the cute boy and prepared to launch into his pitch, assured of a sale by the quick blush the customer gave.

"These are called Verus Quills because they become intrinsically linked to their owners. All the owner has to do is cast the accompanying charm and then write out the alphabet with the quill. After that, the quill is programmed with the owner's handwriting and they become automatic, much like a Dictoquill."

Harry frowned. "Are those anything like what Rita Skeeter uses?"

The clerk, whose name tag read Virgil, curled a lip. "That woman...don't get me started. Whenever she comes into the shop, I excuse myself and force someone else to wait on her. Quite a pest she is. But yes, the principle is the same. However, Verus Quills are unique in that they will write only for their owner and are unable to be used by anyone else."

"Wow." He nodded in acknowledgment, thinking of the DA. Such quills would be incredibly useful, even if he couldn't think of all the uses immediately, and even if he wasn't sure he wanted to keep the DA going. Whatever the case, he'd have to look for a better gift for Hermione. "I'll take the lot of them."

Virgil's eyes widened. "All of them?" he squeaked.

Harry nodded more emphatically. "I have lots of friends for whom these will be wonderful. Do you have a form so that I can order more if need be?"

"Of course, sir."

"Sir? I don't look that old, do I?"

Virgil thought the boy was flirting, so he placed his arms on the counter and leaned forward. "Not at all. You look only slightly younger than me. Hogwarts?"

Harry backed up a step, blushed, and nodded again. "I'm going to be a Sixth Year."

"Congratulations." Another charming grin. "So, would one of these be for someone special?"

The boy ducked his head and mumbled unintelligently.

Virgil decided that even if the boy was flirting, he was also incredibly shy and, as he didn't want to risk mucking up the sale, he begged off. "Well, I hope you find these useful. Is there anything else with which I can assist you?"

Harry frowned and considered the question. It would be helpful to have some means of communicating with his friends while at school without anyone else being able to overhear them, or Dumbledore's spies or portraits or whatever eavesdropping.

"Do you have charmed parchment which would allow my friends and I to write notes to each other which no one else could read?"

Virgil's eyes lighted. "Even better! We have journals with wards to which you can key one or several people so that they can be shared."

"But what if I don't want all those people to read the same message?"

"The wards are layered so that you can individualize and prioritize the messages. If you plan on using more than two journals, then your own journal would function like that of a Secret Keeper, if you're familiar with the Fidelius charm."

"All too well," Harry said darkly.

The clerk blinked. "I see. Well, you alone would set the wards and instruct the journal to display the appropriate messages to the person or persons you want."

"But what if they want to communicate with each other without me reading what they write?"

Virgil winced. "Well, that's the one drawback, you see. There's no way around that. Your journal would keep a record of all transmissions, so you would be privy even to, er, confidential communications."

Harry thought about that. He wasn't necessarily opposed to the idea, except where Ron, Hermione, and a few others were concerned; he certainly didn't want to violate their privacy. However, if he did decide to use these journals for the DA, it would be useful to discover what the members might be writing to each other about him and his closest friends, as well as determining their true loyalties.

He knew he should feel bad about imposing on their secret thoughts, but he didn't; he couldn't afford to, not with Voldemort nattering about and his Death Eaters being a nuisance. Had he these last year, the debacle with Marietta Edgecombe might never have come about, and he wasn't willing to repeat that mistake. Enchanted parchments just weren't cutting it.

Of course, all of this was predicated on whether he intended to keep up the DA. He was still on the fence about that. Perhaps he should let Ron, Hermione, or both of them take over the reins and he could serve as an occasional advisor. Yes. He liked that idea.

"Are you still with me?"

Harry started and looked up into Virgil's concerned face. "Oh! Yeah, sorry. Just thinking about what you said. Right, then. Okay, I'll take fifty journals, plus my own, and I would also like three additional for my friends, so that they can write to each other without fear of any intrusion on my part."

Virgil's eyes widened. "Er, I'm not sure we have all that in stock."

"Would you check, please? It's fine if you don't. I'll send an order once I return to Hogwarts, but if you have four, I'll take those now, in addition to the quills and these other things." He held up his personal purchases.

"Right away."

Harry waited as the clerk went to the back and was disappointed but unsurprised when Virgil returned with only four journals in hand. He was wary of using such devices as they reminded him uncomfortably of Tom Riddle's diary, but he still thought they were his best option. In fact, perhaps this was better, for he could get Ron and Hermione's opinions on his idea and its feasibility after some experimentation with their personal journals.

"As I thought, we don't have that many journals on hand," said a rueful Virgil, "but I do have the four you requested. Complete instructions are located inside each one. I forgot to mention that they are also wand-specific. The first time someone goes to write something, they must first touch the tip of their wand to the lock, and the lock will then adjust itself to grant them access. After that, only that wand will be able to open the journal."

Harry nodded. It wasn't foolproof, but it was the best for which he could hope. At least there were some security measures in place. "Brilliant. How much, then?"

Again, Harry was surprised at how little the lot cost, and he then began to worry that he was taking his money for granted. Surely Ron or Ginny or even Hermione would have balked at how much he had spent in the past few hours. Still, he thought they were good and reasonable purchases, and he could well afford them. Better to be prepared than caught unawares. He doled out the total price and handed the money to Virgil, who took it graciously but seemed to hold his hand longer than necessary.

"Er, thank you," Harry croaked.

"Of course. Would you like me shrink these for you?"

"Please." He averted his eyes. It was ridiculous how easily he was flustered. In fact, it was quite mortifying. Hopefully, Voldemort wasn't skulking about, otherwise he would discern the easiest way to defeat Harry Potter: have a good-looking boy stand before him and hold his hand.

Virgil quickly complied and handed Harry the shrunken items, watching with intent interest as Harry opened his robes and deposited the items inside. He was built quite nicely, if a little more delicately than Virgil preferred. Nice boy, cute and polite, considerate of his friends, and reasonably well-off.

"My lunch hour is coming up. Would you like to get a butterbeer at Fortescue's?"

Harry's mouth fell open and his face felt on fire. "I'm...I mean, uh..."

"That's okay. I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable. I'm sorry."

"Oh! Oh, no," Harry said weakly. "It was very nice of you to ask. You're very nice." He blushed more deeply. "It's just that I'm meeting my friend for lunch, and I'm not sure how she would feel if I invited someone along."

"I see. A friend. A she friend." Virgil fought to stave off a blush. Perhaps he had misjudged the situation. How embarrassing! All the good ones.

"Just a friend," Harry mumbled. Oh, Merlin! He was terrible at flirting! No wonder Cho had thought him daft last year. He cleared his throat and offered instead the most charming smile he could muster.

Virgil's mouth parted and his eyes widened as the boy's face was suddenly transformed from one of cuteness into one of beauty. Godric! That smile made all the difference. Wow! The boy should definitely use that weapon more often; he'd send people flailing about to obey his whims.

"Well, you best be off, then. If you need anything else, just drop back in or send an owl and ask for me."

"Thank you. You've been very helpful. And kind." Harry all but ran out of the shop.

Virgil stared at the retreating form and sighed wistfully before smacking his palm against his forehead. "I didn't get his name!"

* * *

Harry, cursing himself and his flushing skin, raced across the street and sought refuge in Eyelops Owl Emporium. He knew things were grim when the overwhelming stench of so many owls was comforting rather than off-putting. He stalked the aisles in search of Hedwig's favorite treats as he willed his respiration to calm and his normal pallor to reassert itself.

What was wrong with him? That little exchange with a random store clerk had left him more tongue-tied and nervous than any interaction he had ever experienced with Cho, including that time in Madame Puddifoot's!

He dropped his head forward and rested it against the cool metal of one of the shelves. This was absolutely ridiculous! Thank the gods no one had been there to witness it. He could just imagine Hermione's exasperation or the consternation and then teasing he would have to endure from Ron. And if it had been Ginny, well, she wouldn't have rested until he and the clerk had coupled right in front of her. She probably would have offered direction.

So a cute boy had talked to him. So what? Cute boys talked to him all the time. Of course, those boys weren't flirting with him.

Or had they been?

Harry began combing his thoughts in search of possible flirting attempts he hadn't been sophisticated enough to have recognized before. Not that he was all that sophisticated now. He was a bit of rube, apparently. Hadn't Hermione always suggested as much?

Flirting always made him think of Seamus Finnigan, because Seamus flirted with absolutely everything and everyone; he was a natural tease. Perhaps he could ask Seamus for lessons? Some kind of translator or something?

And Seamus was _awfully_ cute, especially with that sexy Irish accent...

He blinked. Sexy? Seamus was sexy?

Well, yes, he rather was. Of course, he hadn't been quite so sexy last term, what with acting like a twit in the DA and all the rest of it, but Harry was willing to cut him some slack. He couldn't expect all of Gryffindor to rally unquestionably behind him.

Seamus, a half-blood, was probably terrified about what Voldemort or his Death Eaters would do to his family; they were prime representatives of what Voldemort despised. If Harry could understand anything, it was fear. And Seamus had delightfully pouty lips.

Sweet Merlin! What was _wrong_ with him? He was being inane and spending far too much time thinking about boys and about what he'd like to do with them. He was supposedly to save the wizarding world, and here he was instead, a blushing schoolboy who had run away from someone who had tried to hold his hand. He was pathetic!

That didn't stop him from thinking of any number of hot guys he knew. As usual, he began with the Weasley clan and started from the top, with Bill. Perhaps this was because he had seen Bill first thing this morning and had spent a good portion of his time in Gringotts wondering what Bill looked like naked. Pretty amazing, he had decided. And then there was Charlie...

He sighed.

Charlie! Charlie was so...well, _delicious_, really. He had given Charlie far too many appraising looks during Fourth Year, when Charlie had helped bring the dragons for the first challenge. Merlin, his arms! They just looked so strong, like he could scoop Harry up in them and keep him safe, and pin him down, and...

"Stop it," he whispered harshly to himself. "It's not right to think of your best mate's brothers that way! What would Ron say? What would Mrs. Weasley say!"

Besides, Bill was all but engaged to Fleur, and that was quite telling, wasn't it? One of the most beautiful women Harry had ever seen, Veela or not, who could have had any man she wanted, had chosen Bill Weasley. At least Harry couldn't fault his own good taste.

He really should drop a line to Fleur. He had ignored her last two letters despite his promises to write. He knew she was worried and Bill had suggested that morning that she had been pestering him for answers.

Harry smiled and shook his head, still agog at the friendship he had built with Fleur Delacour. She was an incomparable witch who was stunningly beautiful with a ribald sense of humor and the elegance of a ballerina. It made him sad that he had kept their friendship secret, worried by what his other friends might say about it.

Charlie was single, wasn't he? Ron hadn't said anything about Charlie dating anyone.

Oh, he was being ludicrous. Charlie was much too mature for him...wasn't he? What would Charlie want with a skinny runt like him?

Harry skipped right over Percy and thought next of the twins. It was almost sinful how adorable they were and he thought himself a bit touched in the head that when he thought about one, he usually ended thinking of them both, with himself somewhere in between.

That was certainly untoward and entirely inappropriate! Quite possibly perverted!

_Oh, hello, Gred and Forge! Would you be willing to engage in a bout of incest to placate my raging libido? Want to play Harry in the Middle?  
_  
The scary thing was that he could actually imagine them agreeing, and that sent his mind off to places from which he should best shy away. And truthfully, he preferred George, though he would never be able to qualify just why that was. It wasn't anything against Fred, of course, but when Harry would watch the twins, and hopefully they had never noticed him doing so, he had always thought George was the more quiet one, even a little shy.

Well, as shy as a Weasley twin could be.

Blood was pooling between his legs and Harry Potter was never more grateful in his life for wizarding robes.

Of course, once his mind began racing, he couldn't shut it off, so he moved past the Weasleys and began considering other boys.

Dean Thomas was good looking, but not really his type.

Neville was invariably kind and inordinately brave, but Harry couldn't quite picture himself snogging the boy; still, he was quite glad to count Neville as an incredibly good friend.

Justin Finch-Fletchley was more than a spot of all right. He was actually quite lovely, with all of that curly hair, and he was a bit of a flirt, as well. He was Hufflepuff's answer to Seamus Finnigan.

Terry Boot was okay, though rather bland.

Ernie MacMillan was a prat, but not entirely unfortunate looking.

Zacharias Smith wasn't worthy of consideration.

Michael Corner was quite attractive, but after the way he had treated Ginny, all Harry wanted to do was punch in his face for at least three days.

He knew a lot of girls and a fair number of boys fancied Malfoy, and Harry was willing to concede that Malfoy wasn't completely ugly, but Malfoy did nothing for him, not when he knew how diseased the boy's mind was.

Even if he had been attracted to Malfoy, he would never be able to cast aside the past five years and all of the absolutely vile things that great prat had said and done to Harry himself and his friends.

Before he could stop them, he was assailed with unbidden images of Cedric Diggory.

And, really, that was just too much.

He had to force himself to stop romanticizing their brief encounters. Yes, Cedric had been absolutely beautiful, had all but taken Harry's breath away, but truly no one could be that perfect. Well, he had had lovely eyes. A most fascinating shade of gray, so much unlike Malfoy's, whose eyes always looked stormy. Cedric had had kind eyes, gentle eyes.

Harry sighed again.

And Cedric's thick, wavy chestnut hair. Harry wished he had worked up the courage to touch it, just once. He imagined it had been like silk. He thought about how it would feel between his fingers, like secret kisses, and how Cedric would purr under his touch. And the full, luscious lips which had been crafted for long, slow busses which Harry was quite sure would have made his toes curl.

"You're being obscene," he chastised himself. "Cedric is dead. Leave him be."

But he couldn't, because he had killed him, as much as if he had cast the spell himself.

Stupid sense of fair play. He should have just taken the blasted cup. He should have suspected something was wrong with it. He sometimes thought it would have been better had he just allowed Cedric to take the cup.

No, no.

No, Cedric had been owed someone to witness his murder. He deserved to be remembered as more than Death Eater collateral damage. To the very end, Cedric had been a hero, and not because of his face or his body, but because he had been a decent, kind boy with atypical bravery; because he had treated people with respect and consideration, regardless of what other people said.

"Don't you _dare_ cry," he hissed to himself. "Not here."

A few tears slipped past his command, however, and Harry angrily swatted them away. He should probably check himself into St. Mungo's. It couldn't be healthy to obsess this much over someone who had perished more than a year ago.

How could he be just as if not more upset over Cedric, a boy he had never truly known, as he was about Sirius, his own godfather? Of course, he really hadn't known Sirius, either. Perhaps that was what was so haunting, that he hadn't gotten the chance to know two such incredible men, and now he never would.

Still, what was he going on about? Cedric hadn't felt anything for him other than compassion and perhaps a dose of pity. He had been one of the few who had insisted almost from the beginning that Harry hadn't entered himself in the Goblet.

He wished he had told Cedric how much that had meant to him, how close to his heart he had kept that generosity, when the entire school, including one of his own best friends, had turned their backs on him. Cedric had told his house that he wouldn't tolerate those insipid badges Malfoy had produced, that engaging in such childish behavior was beneath Hufflepuffs.

And yes, they had had a few brief conversations, most of which had involved Harry staring at Cedric's mouth and managing to nod in the right places, hoping Cedric hadn't noticed his fidgeting and praying that his robes covered him adequately in the front.

So what if Cedric had stood closer to him than necessary? It had made sense, after all; the contestants weren't supposed to speak to each other about the tasks, and Cedric had merely been cautious. Right? And if Cedric had looked into his eyes the entire time he spoke, what of it? Eye contact. Wasn't that what you were supposed to do? What confident people did? None of it meant anything.

Yet he couldn't stop himself from wondering what would have happened if he had tried to hold Cedric's hand or had hugged him or had told him how much he had admired him. He doubted Cedric would have cared; he had been with Cho, after all.

Still, perhaps if he had had the guts to say anything that wasn't mundane, maybe he wouldn't be so desolate. He would always be haunted by Cedric's death, but possibly this heartsickness wouldn't be so acute. Even if he had been outright rejected, it would have been better than this constant wondering and the distant hope which still burned somewhere deep within him.

How pitiful was that? Hoping a dead boy might have fancied him? No wonder half the world thought him nutters.

But none of that explained why he had been dreaming of Cedric long before the other boy had been murdered, dreaming of him even before fourth year.

Harry had always known who Cedric Diggory was - who hadn't? - even if their contact was limited to the occasional Quidditch match. He had noticed the way the trousers fit Cedric's body, the way the sun transformed the highlights of his hair into a burnished halo, and the creamy unblemished skin which Harry had been sure was even softer than he had ever imagined. How Cedric's eyes had sparkled even more than Dumbledore's, just because he was so happy all the time.

Was that was this was about? That part of him had been jealous of Cedric for being happy? Had he wanted Cedric because he had wanted to taste that happiness for himself?

No.

He had wanted Cedric because Cedric had been worth wanting. He might not have known Cedric well, but what he did know, he had liked. Had loved.

"I loved him," he whispered, closing his eyes, the admission a knife his gut.

He immediately tried to talk himself out of it, that he couldn't possibly have loved Cedric. He didn't even really know what love was! Certainly he hadn't learned it from the Dursleys, and it was a completely different love than what he shared with Ron and Hermione, and different than what he had with the Weasleys, even those after whom he lusted. How could he have loved Cedric?

He forced himself to pull it together and squash it all down; he would deal with it later. He had to meet Luna soon and he still wanted to see the twins and whatever mischief in which they were currently involved.

Grabbing a can of owl treats, Harry squared his shoulders, breathed deeply, and made his way to the front of the store, thankful it was practically empty and that no one had seen his ridiculous display. Honestly, he had to be more careful. One simply never knew when beetles might be lurking about.

He needed to get himself under control, especially before he returned to school. He could ill afford to have these spells in the company of other people, as they would become nothing more than new fodder for Malfoy and his cronies.

He placed the can of treats on the counter and his eyes restlessly sought the clerk, hoping it wouldn't be another cute guy. Spying a bell hidden by the register, he tapped it with impatience.

"I'll be right there!" a distinctly feminine voice shouted from the back.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. A few minutes later, a woman bustled forward with a speed which would have pleased Madam Pomfrey and came to stand behind the counter.

"Is that all, young man?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry if I disturbed you."

"Oh, not at all! It's just that there's a clutch hatching in the back, and I've been checking on them throughout the morning."

His eyes lighted. "Really?"

"In the market for an owl, are you?" she laughed.

"No!" he shouted, his tone almost scathing. "My owl is perfect. She's almost seven now. My friend Hagrid bought her from here, as a matter of fact. Hedwig was a birthday gift." He smiled. "Best one I ever got, too."

"You're Harry Potter!"

He touched the fringe of his hair to ensure it was still covering his scar and lowered his eyes. "Yes, ma'am."

"I'll have you know I don't believe one whit of that nonsense in that rubbish paper. I use it to line the owl cages. It looks much better with droppings dotting it, I've found."

His laugh was explosive and he wheezed his thanks.

"I well remember Hagrid buying that owl," she said fondly. "Told me how important she was to be to a new friend of his. Good taste in owls, that man has. So, named her Hedwig, did you? A great snowy owl?"

Harry beamed. "She's beautiful!" he crowed. "She's one of my best friends."

The woman nodded. "I know exactly what you mean." She stormed toward the door and flipped the lock. Turning back to Harry, she said, "Why don't you come into the hatchery for a few moments. You might get to see one of the owlets being born."

"Wow," he breathed. The woman smiled and strode toward the back of the shop, Harry trailing behind her.

"Here we are!" she announced, stopping before a nest.

Harry peeked from behind her and looked into the bulbous orange eyes of a tawny barn owl. The bird considered him for a moment. Harry bowed his head, which seemed to please her greatly, and she nodded in kind.

"You have respect for owls," the pleased shopkeeper noted. "I'm Calliope Marchbanks, by the way."

He blinked. "It's nice to meet you. Er, pardon my asking, but are you any relation to Griselda Marchbanks?"

The woman smiled. "Yes, I am! She's my elder sister. Might I ask how you know her, Mister Potter?"

He looked around nervously, but decided that, as they were alone, it was doubtful they would be overheard. "I met her briefly when I was tried by the Wizengamot."

She stared. "Excuse me? For what could you have been possibly been tried, and by the _full court_, no less?"

"Er," he hesitated, blushing, "I chased off a couple of Dementors. Someone had sent them to Surrey after me, and they attacked both my cousin and me. My cousin's a Muggle, you see, and I'm underage, so not only did I illegally perform magic, but I potentially exposed it."

"Outrageous."

Harry hung his head and nodded.

"Oh! Not you, dear!"

He looked up, startled.

"What breed of fool would haul a young man before the Wizengamot for protecting not only himself but a Muggle from Dementors?" she raged. She blinked. "By the way, how _did_ you drive them off?"

"I cast my Patronus?"

The woman's mouth fell open. "You? You cast a Patronus? But you're a boy!"

Harry frowned, but the woman paid no heed.

"You cast a Patronus strong enough to ward off Dementors, saving your life and that of your cousin, and you get punished for it? Were there any witnesses?"

"A Squib who lives nearby," he said.

She held up a hand. "Wait. You defended yourself and your cousin, with whom I presume you live, from soul-sucking creatures who had no business being near any kind of residence, yes?"

He nodded.

"And the only witness was a Squib with whom you are familiar?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then how could you have violated the Statute of Secrecy when the only two people who witnessed the event already knew of the existence of magic?"

He stared at her.

"Who was your solicitor?" she demanded. "I have half a mind to send him or her a Howler!"

"Solicitor?" asked a dazed Harry.

Calliope's face became pinched and she closed her eyes. "Mister Potter - _Harry_ - please tell me you had a solicitor at this farce of a trial?"

"No ma'am," he whispered, averting his eyes and feeling ashamed. Should he have asked for one? Was that was he was supposed to have done? Was that the role Dumbledore had been playing? Of course, Dumbledore hadn't done much...

"What kind of nonsense is going on here!" she roared.

He blinked and stepped back.

"Oh, I'm sorry, dear," she said ruefully. "Just gets my goat, it does. I just can't fathom how such a miscarriage of justice occurred! While the rules against underage magic are stringent and explicit, they certainly don't apply to instances of mortal peril! And I'm sure it would have been nothing for the Accidental Magic Squad to pop over and Obliviate any observant Muggles. Honestly, what _were_ they thinking? I have a good mind to send my sister a Howler the likes of which she's never seen!"

"Please don't," Harry begged. "She was very kind, and I gathered she thought the whole thing was just as ridiculous as you do."

Calliope snorted. "Of that, I have no doubt. But who sent the Dementors?" Harry trapped her in an even gaze. She paled, but nodded. "Of course. Sick bastard."

He smothered the hysterical giggle threatening to erupt. "Well, I never quite determined whether or not it was Voldemort." He was shocked and pleased when the woman didn't so much as flinch at the name. "I rather think it was Fudge who sicced them on me, although Umbridge took the credit."

"That imbecile!" she screeched. "How well I can believe that fool would do something so reckless! And I'm sure she was there to lead the charge against you?"

Harry inclined his head.

"The titmouse," she seethed. "Thank Merlin she and Fudge are gone."

"W-What?"

Her eyes widened. "Don't you know? Fudge was ousted from the Ministry, largely because of his attacks against you! They've temporarily installed Amelia Bones in the position."

His breathing became faint as he wondered how the new Minister would react to the note he had had Dobby deliver. He had been under the impression Bones was still the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; never would he have guessed she was the new Minister!

Well, he supposed it served him right for ignoring his post for most of the summer.

Calliope wasn't paying attention to him, however. "About time, too. Fudge was a disaster from day one, always prancing about like a reindeer on Christmas Eve. Stupidest man I've ever known, that's for sure. Nothing but a puppet." She sighed. "Well, hopefully things will improve with a no-nonsense woman like Bones in charge. I hope she chooses to run in the general election. I'd certainly vote for her."

A bewildered Harry nodded.

"Oh! One's hatching!"

He turned his eager face to the cage and stared with wonder as he heard a gentle pecking and watched as the outer shell of an egg begin to crack. In his excitement, he grabbed Calliope's hand and squeezed, an unconscious movement on his part.

She looked askance at him askance. This boy was not mad. If he said Voldemort was back, he was back. He could have said any number of things against Fudge, but hadn't. He could have blamed her sister for his illegal trial, but didn't. Harry Potter was one person where good hype wasn't enough. She squeezed back.

He held his breath as he watched the tiny little head break though the shell and offer a pathetic chirp.

"Oh, it's wonderful," he breathed.

"It is, indeed."

"Miss Marchbanks…"

"Calliope, please."

"Calliope, then." He gave her a self-conscious grin. "How long does it take before an owl is ready to become a post owl?"

The woman turned her eyes up to the ceiling. "Well, there are many variables. It depends on the breed, of course, as well as the individual owl's intelligence and disposition. Typically a few months at minimum."

Harry thought of Pigwidgeon and nodded. "How long do you think for this little, er, guy?"

Calliope peered more closely into the cage, the mother owl now cleaning off her young. "Boy," she promptly decided. "If he's anything like his mother, not long at all. But I thought you weren't looking for a new owl, Harry?"

"Oh, not for me," he rushed to say. "Frankly, I hope Hedwig outlives me, for I just don't think I could bear to lose her. My best friend's birthday is coming up, and I know she would love to have her own owl. I've seen her with Hedwig; she would take great care of this little owl."

"She, is it? Then you're speaking of Hermione Granger?"

Harry promptly released the woman's hand and turned startled eyes upon her.

She chuckled. "Said I don't believe the nonsense _The Prophet_ prints about you, but I do read the articles to keep apprised. It's no secret that Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley are your best friends. So, this owl would be for Hermione, then. Is it true what they say of her?"

Harry stiffened. "And what would that be?" he asked coldly.

Calliope was unsurprised and positive the boy was ready to launch into a blistering defense of his friend. "That she's quite brilliant, of course."

He relaxed slightly and curtly nodded once. "Hermione Granger is the brightest witch of her age."

She considered his statement. "Coming from Harry Potter, that endorsement means something to me." She nodded. "All right, then, yes, I think this owlet could be properly trained up in a few months time. When is your friend's birthday?"

"Mid-September," said a hopeful Harry.

"Hm. Well, it will take some effort on my part, but I'm willing to expend it. And as Topaz here seems to approve of you, I doubt she'll resent that her baby will be going to a good home." She paused. "Harry, are you quite sure you can afford this? While this wee one wouldn't be as expensive as Hedwig, personal post owls are not cheap."

"I have the money, and Hermione is worth every galleon and more."

The woman nodded. "Let's leave these two alone, shall we? We'll go up front, I'll get you the paperwork, and ring you up."

Happy to comply, a cheerful Harry followed her back out into the store proper. "I'll need a cage, of course, so that Hermione can take her owl home for the holidays and summers, and whatever treats you think the owl might enjoy. Oh! And if you have any books on owl care or this specific species, I'd like those as well, please. Hermione would go spare if she couldn't learn absolutely everything she could about owls."

Calliope smiled. "Have you any thoughts on a name?"

He debated only briefly. "Sophus."

Her smile became more broad. "Masculine nominative for _wise_. Excellent choice, Harry." She made some notes on the paper before her. "All right, then, we're all set." She named the total and watched with careful eyes as the boy before her didn't even blink, merely dipping into his purse and conscientiously counting out the galleons. She palmed the money and deposited it, and then they chatted about when Sophus would be delivered to Hermione.

"Calliope, perhaps you could answer a question for me?"

"I'll certainly do my best," she promptly replied.

"A friend of mine who recently met Hedwig told me that I had an extremely powerful familiar. What does that mean?"

Her eyes widened. "Harry, this is...most unexpected. Familiars are incredibly rare, and they are almost never owls."

He frowned. "But what _is_ a familiar?"

"A familiar is an animal who willingly bonds with their owner."

"I don't _own_ Hedwig," Harry vigorously protested. "She's my friend!" Hadn't he said this already?

That pleased Calliope to no end. "And that is why she has chosen to bond with you, because you treat her not as a servant, but as an equal. All animals, and especially owls, are enormously prideful, as they have every right to be. They were here before us, you know, and will be here long after we all kill ourselves. That Hedwig so obviously respects you says much to your character. That she has become your familiar means she will never leave you, Harry. She will be by your side until she is no more, and she will remain unfailingly loyal and protect you from harm."

"I know Hedwig loves me," he said softly. Hers was the only love he had never doubted.

"Indeed. There is much we do not know about the magic of familiars, for we are, unfortunately, unable to converse with animals. Even the most powerful Animagi are often at a loss when their animal forms encounter another of their kind. True familiars are few and far between. That level of trust between animal and human is not often to be found."

"Fawkes."

She nodded. "Yes. Dumbledore's phoenix is a good example. Familiars typically have a heightened awareness of their human counterparts, an intelligence which goes beyond normal capabilities. Never doubt that when you speak to Hedwig, she understands your every word."

"I wish I could understand her," he said wistfully.

"I rather imagine you can. Typically, humans who have familiars show a remarkable degree of empathy. While you might not understand exactly Hedwig's clucks and chirps, you usually can discern her moods, correct?"

Harry nodded.

"While most people who have animals also share a link, a bond with a familiar goes much deeper. You don't need words, Harry. You communicate with Hedwig just fine. If she has become your familiar, it is because she loves you greatly and considers you her own. You're right in that you don't own her; she owns you."

He grinned so hard he thought his face might crack.

"Now," Calliope added, "I have some books here on what we do know of familiars and their magic, if you would like them."

He nodded and reached for his purse.

She held up a hand. "None of that!" she said sharply. "You have given me extreme pleasure in coming here this morning and chatting with me. It's nice to have an intelligent conversation with a thoughtful young man, instead of receiving looks and being whispered about as the doddering old Bird Lady."

He looked affronted on her behalf and her heart warmed. "You well understand public opinion, Harry. You should know that no one beneath you can offend you, and no one your equal would."

He frowned. "I've heard that before."

"Eleanor Roosevelt. A remarkable lady, Muggle or no. Quite wise."

"Thank you," he whispered.

"All right, then," she said briskly, "I'm sure you have places to be, but the next time you're in Diagon Alley, do drop in, won't you?"

"Of course! And I'll send you a note to tell you how much Hermione loves Sophus. I'm sure Hedwig would like to see you again."

"That would be lovely," she smiled. "Off you go!"

"Thank you, Calliope," he said gravely, taking the books on familiars in hand. "For everything."

She nodded brusquely. "I'll have the cage and the books for Miss Granger shrunk and delivered to you by post before her birthday."

He smiled again and took his leave.

Calliope watched from behind the counter as he turned left, presumably toward Fortescue's, and sighed. "Delightful boy."

She frowned. "I think I best contact Griselda. That Wizengamot business doesn't sit well with me at all. Honestly, _what_ were they thinking!"

She reached into the nearest drawer and pulled out a sheet of red parchment the entire wizarding world despised.

* * *

Draco Malfoy had snuck away from the Zabini villa on the pretext of returning home early, but instead had every intention of segueing into Knockturn Alley to find some useful little whatsit that would aid him in further enraging Harry Potter once the term started. Better yet, something to humiliate either the Mudblood or the Weasel, for nothing pissed off Potter more than when his friends were attacked.

In truth, he was glad to be well away from Assumpta Zabini and her overripe sexuality. The woman was constantly in heat and Draco suspected she had a thirst for her own son. Were it true, it was no surprise Blaise kept to himself.

He had only agreed to Assumpta's invitation because he knew his attendance would drive Blaise absolutely spare. Blaise hated him with a passion but, like any true Slytherin, made alliances despite personal feelings. Not that he and Blaise had reached an alliance, nor was one likely on the horizon.

Further, he suspected Assumpta had seen through Lucius' ploys to abandon her neutrality and throw in her lot with the Dark Lord. Assumpta was manipulating Lucius by humoring him, which was startling to Draco. At first he thought the woman after his father, but Assumpta had stated quite clearly she had far too much respect for Narcissa to play such games. He had rightly interpreted that as the woman being afraid of his mother.

Oh, well. The entire fiasco was most likely a loss, but at least he could say he ruined Blaise Zabini's summer holiday.

All but skipping down the avenue, Draco smirked with barely suppressed laughter. People were used to Draco Malfoy smirking at everyone and everything, so sure of his intellectual and pedigreed superiority, that no one really took notice.

The blond boy suddenly halted in his tracks as he spotted Harry Potter across the thoroughfare. The Boy Who Wouldn't Die was walking along, completely unaware of the people stopping their commute simply to gawk at him. Draco could truly not believe that Harry was as ignorant as he claimed as to his affect on other people. Surely no one was that stupid.

Draco scanned the immediate area and was unsurprised to see young girls clutching their hearts as an unwitting Harry passed. Some of the boys clutched other parts of their bodies. Adults stared and began whispering to each other, some being forced to restrain their friends and spouses from reaching out to touch the bespectacled youth, as though Harry Potter was messianic.

He wrinkled his nose. He, of course, felt nothing but contempt for Harry Potter and everything and everyone associated with him, and was himself used to attracting a great deal of attention. But watching Potter now, Draco got the distinct impression that Potter wasn't unaware of his admirers so much as he was truly uncaring. He saw them as a burden, a hindrance to the life of normalcy he was so desperate to claim for himself.

Draco snorted. Who wanted to be normal when they could special? It didn't make sense.

It wasn't so much that he objected to Potter in theory. He did admire power, after all. But the reality of Potter was rather unpalatable. Potter was boringly moralistic and his dedication to underdogs pathetic. His temper frequently got the best of him, and Draco was sure that, more than anything else, was what would trigger Potter's defeat. Not to mention Potter's appalling taste in friends. The Weasel was a sycophantic idiot who rode Potter's coattails like a puppy nipping at his master's heel.

As much as he didn't care to admit it, Granger was worthy of more consideration; though a Mudblood, the girl was anything but stupid, if OWL results could be believed.

Draco scowled. It didn't so much rankle him that he had been outperformed by Potter, although it was surprising, but that their _entire year_ had been bested by Granger was noxious. It was also somewhat galling that she ignored whatever insults were thrown her way, but let one of her friends be attacked and Granger became a force unto herself. His cheek still hurt from when she had struck him. He had played it off at the time as if he had been surprised more than anything, but her bloody punch had actually hurt, and that had been humiliating.

Draco turned these thoughts over and decided to review them later. Perhaps Granger would be an excellent way to get to Potter.

Potter was now moving with what Draco could only call purpose. As usual, the boy was mumbling to himself and his eyes were glazed with that look Potter sported when deep in thought.

He wanted to chuckle. Poor, simple Harry had absolutely no ability to mask his emotions. He wore everything on his sleeve and was thus impossibly easy to manipulate. He would have thought that, by now, either the Mudblood or McGonagall would have better instructed him in deportment.

Malfoy peered more closely and realized he might possibly have erred. Potter wasn't uncaring of his fame; he was terrified by it. As soon as the Slytherin recognized this, he startled as a surge of people converged on the boy, demanding he attend to them, trying to touch him and ripping his shirt in the process.

He watched as Potter immediately cowered, looking as though he was trying to will himself to merge with the sidewalk as the mob's worship quickly turned into indignation and then anger at his continued silence and perceived indifference.

He watched this impassively, stomping down a weak inner voice which insisted he should help Potter, who now appeared to be nothing more than two large, green, and horrified eyes.

Ridiculous. Potter was a half-blood, a blood-traitor, a Mudblood-lover, and a host of other things which Draco found equally offensive. As powerful as Potter might be, and he was quite sure the idiot was more powerful than anyone realized, Draco had little doubt that Lord Voldemort would emerge triumphant when all was said and done, regardless of Potter, Dumbledore, or anyone else.

Suddenly, three Aurors Apparated between Potter and his maniacal fans, their wands drawn and donning expressions so fierce, Draco's bladder wanted to relieve itself. He stood there, jaws agape, as the Aurors backed the crowd off, all the while the people jeered that the Boy Who Lived owed them his time, attention, and protection. Even Draco thought that ridiculous. Potter didn't owe anyone simply because he was alive.

Draco surmised it was his half-blood cousin with the ridiculous name who was screeching at the collective.

"Harry owes you nothing, you ungrateful lot, and nothing warrants this unprovoked attack! Get back to your homes, all of you, before I lock you all up in Azkaban for your appalling stupidity!"

Her hair rapidly changed colors and her eyes seemed to breathe fire as she delivered her tirade.

Potter meanwhile had pressed himself tightly behind Kingsley Shacklebolt, who looked absolutely murderous. Draco frowned and attempted to process what he was witnessing. So Potter was scared; he supposed it made sense, but it was startling because he had never seen the other boy truly afraid.

Another part of him wondered why Potter had reacted the why he had, almost submissively, and had done nothing to prevent the attack or fight against those who had assaulted him, as if the thought to defend himself had never made itself known.

_This_ was the person who routinely defeated the Dark Lord like other people changed their shorts? That was...disconcerting.

Draco swallowed heavily. Perhaps it wasn't quite as glorious to be Harry Potter as previously thought.

* * *

"Talk to me!" Ginny Weasley shrieked at her elder brother.

"About _what_?" demanded an exasperated Ron.

"About whatever it is that's troubling you! Obviously something is wrong," she said in a more sedate tone. "Is it Hermione? Harry? Don't you want them to come and stay here with us?"

"Of course I do! They're my best mates!"

"Well, you better snap out of this funk before Hermione gets here," she warned. "Otherwise she'll pester you endlessly until you've told her everything, right down to the color of your shorts."

He blushed.

"Ah," Ginny said, smiling knowingly. At last, she was getting somewhere. "Finally decided to get off your lazy bum and declare your intentions to the scarlet woman, have you? Well, it's about bloody time! You're lucky she's put up with you for as long as she has, especially after your nonsense about Krum. I don't know what the big deal is. Everyone knows how you feel about her."

"What are you babbling about?" he crossly barked.

"You're in love with Hermione, of course!"

Ron shrugged. He didn't believe there was any point in denying it. "Okay."

Ginny's gaze narrowed. "She's quite pretty when she isn't being so...bookish."

"Hermione is very beautiful," he quietly said.

She nodded and then hesitated only briefly. "So is Harry."

"Yes," Ron agreed, before thinking. He startled, trained pained eyes on his sister, and fled his own bedroom.

"What a prude," she pouted, rolling her eyes. "Well, it's obvious what I have to do. I need to push them together somehow. Oh! What if they all three fancy each other! How scandalous!"

Ginny clapped her hands in delight. "How wonderful that Ron and Harry will be sharing a room. I'll just have to hide all their clothes!"

She was sure the twins had a Wheeze which could aid in that endeavor, and if she just happened to spy a naked Harry, so much the better.

* * *

Before meeting Luna, Harry decided to pop in at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, the joke shop established and managed by the twins and which had been financed largely by Harry himself, though that tidbit was unknown to everyone but the three of them.

Figuring it would be easier to slip back into life at the Burrow if he slowly renewed contact with a few Weasleys at a time rather than being overwhelmed by the entire family at once, he also felt more at ease around the twins than the other siblings. Fred and George were never much serious about anything, and a nice dose of levity would be quite welcome.

And he wanted to ogle them.

He wasn't ashamed to admit it, even if only to himself, and being with them would help to ease his distress at what had just occurred. Luckily, Tonks had mended his shirt and there were no other outward signs of the...altercation, which thankfully seemed to have been confined to the area around the bookstore located at the opposite end of Diagon Alley. Hopefully, the twins hadn't heard the commotion.

Hearing the bell announce a potential new customer, Fred and George simultaneously looked up from the counter, eyes lighting with joy at Harry's arrival.

"Welcome, Harrykins!" Fred bellowed.

"Good to see you, mate!" George offered, nose crinkling with pleasure.

"Hello," said a cheerful Harry. "How goes?"

"Very well, thanks to you," Fred replied.

Harry soured. He didn't like being reminded that he had provided the seed money for the shop. It was, after all, a sound investment. The entire student body of Hogwarts had for years been paying the twins for their comic inventions. Harry had once seen movie while on break at the Dursleys. Of course, he had to spy from the top of the stairs so that his aunt and uncle would not see him, and he heard the dialogue more than actually watched the movie.

It was called _Field of Dreams_ and Harry remembered the line, 'if you build it, they will come'. He thought that more than apropos for the twins' idea of a joke shop.

Besides, the Galleons from the Tournament were little more than bloody money and he wanted nothing to do with it.

"Now, now," George tutted, "none of that. You might not believe your contribution to be anything special, Harry, but we disagree. So please humor us if we say thank you every now and again."

He nodded with weary resignation and began to peruse the shelves.

"What are you doing in Diagon Alley, Harry?" Fred shouted from the back room.

"Just needed to pick up a few odds and ends," the boy responded. "I'm meeting Luna soon and then we're going to see Dumbledore at Hogwarts."

"Lovegood?" George asked, quirking an eyebrow. "Ron said she was barmy."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Ron's not the best judge of character. I should know; he chose me for his best friend."

"Sod off," Fred grinned, as he made his way back to the counter. "Best thing he did, that was. Hasn't made a good choice since. Here, mate, got some post for you." He held out a batch of letters.

George snickered and nodded in agreement at his twin's assessment of their brother. "So what are you seeing Dumbledore about?"

Harry shrugged. "Class selection, mostly," he said evasively, palming the letters.

"Mostly," Fred and George repeated, their eyes twinkling.

"It's bloody frightening that your eyes twinkle just as much as Dumbledore's," Harry shivered. "I think the lot of you are nutters."

"Thank you!" the twins said, beaming.

"And the letters, Harry?" George asked, curiosity piqued.

He gave them a hard look. "I trust you with my life, both of you."

The twins straightened and gave him measured looks. Harry had just gifted them with no small admission. They nodded.

"There are things going on," the boy continued, "things I don't yet understand, but which I need to figure out. As soon as I do, I'm going to need you. Badly."

Each twin cocked their head and considered the statement, discerning it had something to do with Dumbledore, about whom they had their own reservations, particularly after Umbridge's reign of terror. They nodded carefully.

The corners of Harry's mouth quirked up, but he wouldn't say anything more.

The twins, who could actually be quite sensitive, dropped the subject.

"Well, good!" George expounded. "Perhaps a visit in a few weeks from his best mate will snap ickle Ronniekins out of his latest snit."

Harry sighed. "What's his problem now?"

The twins snickered. "Well, our dear little sister has been riding Ronald to declare his intentions to the fair Hermione," Fred confided in an exaggerated whisper.

"Well it's about bloody time!" Harry exclaimed. "I swear to Merlin that if I have to watch those two dance around each other for another year, I'm either going to kill them or myself, just so I don't have to watch! I'd rather ask Voldemort to tea!"

"Ronnie is a bit infuriating, eh, mate?" Fred laughed.

"It's not just Ron!" Harry challenged. "Hermione is just as bad. In fact, sometimes she's worse! At least he tries to keep his feelings to himself. Hermione just barges around the tower and talks my ear off. 'What did Ron mean when he said this? What did you think of his tone? Are you two up to something behind my back?' Honestly!"

Fred laughed at him and Harry flushed as he realized how much like an exasperated Hermione he had just sounded.

George sobered. "Are you and Ron up to something behind Hermione's back, Harry?" he asked in a peculiar voice.

Harry blinked. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"Nothing," Fred interjected. "So, Harry, do tell us. Any new romantic prospects looming on the horizon for the Boy Who Lived?"

Said Boy again rolled his eyes. "Hardly. After that mess with Cho, the last thing I want to do is get involved with some girl who's going to cry when I try to kiss her."

"She cried?" George guffawed.

Harry flushed bright red. "Yeah, well, she was thinking of Cedric," he whispered, dropping his eyes to the floor.

George's own eyes narrowed fractionally as he contemplated how immediately despondent his friend had become at the mention of Diggory.

"She's daft," Fred said. "It's sad about Cedric and it always will be, but, well, life goes on, doesn't it? The bird had the most sought after boyfriend in the whole sodding wizarding world and she blew it by sniveling like a miserable wretch. Good riddance, I say."

"Most sought after boyfriend?" Harry repeated, sniggering. "I highly doubt that!"

"You shouldn't," George said seriously. "You'd be a wonderful catch for anyone, Harry Potter. Chang is a stupid bint for blowing the chance."

"Well, it wasn't quite like that," Harry countered, not really wishing to engage in yet another denigration of Cho Chang. He'd been through that more than once with Ron and Hermione.

"Oh?" asked an intense George, leaning forward on the counter with his elbows. "Tell us, mate, how was it, then?"

Harry blushed again and shrugged. "How's it going with Angelina, Fred?"

"Angie's a nice girl. She's fine," he replied, not really answering the question.

"And Alicia?" Harry politely inquired of George.

The redhead shrugged. "We're not together anymore."

"Oh, er, sorry," Harry said quickly, ducking his head, trying to smother that warm little tingle which resulted when he realized George was single, chastising himself and his selfishness.

"No apologies necessary, Harry. She wanted things to get much more serious, and, well, I'm not quite sure she's the one, you know?" George said slyly.

Harry nodded but seemed distracted. "Well," he declared, "I suppose I should be off to get everything done before Dumbledore sends a posse of Aurors to fetch me. It's bad enough I've got Tonks and Kingsley, and Merlin knows who else, peeking out at me from behind every corner. When Tonks isn't tripping over a rubbish bin, that is."

The twins laughed appreciatively. "See you soon, Harrykins!"

"I have a favor," Harry quietly stated.

The twins looked at each other and then back at Harry, nodding.

"Don't tell Ron, Hermione, or anyone else that I was here today, or that I am meeting Luna."

"What's going on, Harry?" Fred demanded, though his tone was light. And what did Lovegood have to do with all of this?

"Enough, Fred," George scolded. "Secrets, Harry? You know we'll always keep yours."

His brother's face cleared and Fred nodded.

"Thanks," Harry said gratefully. "I'll see you at the Burrow in a few weeks."

The twins nodded again. "Mum's already planning the feast," Fred snickered. "Inviting the whole family to celebrate her adopted son's Sweet Sixteen."

"Will, er," Harry stammered, trying for nonchalance and failing miserably, "will, uh, will, um, will Charlie be there?" cursing himself for choking on the name.

The twins eyed each other carefully and, as one, turned back to Harry, who patently ignored the look. He sighed inwardly, determining they had already figured out way too much. Still, he did trust them to keep his secrets. After all, he had kept many of theirs, and they were nothing if not loyal. That, and desperate to violate norms and rules at every given opportunity.

"He said he would be," George began.

"And Bill is coming, too," Fred finished. "With Fleur."

All three groaned, although the twins noticed that, while sympathetic, Harry's whine contained no real venom. At last, Harry took his leave after asking the twins to relate his best to Lee Jordan, waving as he passed out the door and along the front window.

"Well," George softly said, "I think we have it." He set his jaw and shrugged.

"I'm sorry, Forge," Fred obligatorily whispered.

He himself, however, was less sure than his twin. He had noticed that Harry had been looking much more closely at George than at him. Perhaps there was more than one Weasley brother upon whom Harry Potter was crushing? He turned his back and smirked, wondering how dear Ronniekins might react to that little tidbit.

George said nothing and immediately set about tallying the morning's receipts.

* * *

"You cannot be serious!" Snape thundered, rising to his feet.

"I assure you I am quite serious, Severus," Dumbledore snapped, his eyes twinkling now with impatient menace.

"Perhaps," McGonagall smoothly began, hoping to quell a potential maelstrom, "if you explained yourself for once, Albus, we could avoid any unpleasantness." Her brow quirked. "Or at least lessen the fallout."

Flitwick frowned. "Albus, are you quite sure this decision is sound? Appointing a Muggle to the Hogwarts faculty?"

Sprout's eyes were narrowed as she sat back and watched the other three. She would wait until everything was said before offering an opinion.

"The reasons are very simple," Dumbledore offered, "as well as practical. I will not have Harry Potter's experience here repeated."

"What do you mean?" McGonagall demanded.

"Minerva, there are many things you do not know with regard to Harry," Albus quietly stated.

"And whose fault is that!" the woman bellowed in reply.

Snape was so taken aback, he immediately sat down in his chair. Flitwick and Sprout, their eyes the size of saucers, trained startled gazes on the witch.

"I understand your anger, Minerva, and you are entitled," Albus continued. "There is something of which you are all unaware regarding how Harry came to Hogwarts. Several things, actually, and I have been remiss not to inform you of them before this time."

He cleared his throat, knowing in advance his next words were going to cause an uproar.

"Harry Potter was raised not knowing that he was a wizard. He knew nothing of his parents, save their names, and had been told they were killed in an automobile accident. Until I sent Hagrid to fetch him, Harry did not know that magic was real. He knew nothing of Hogwarts, of Sirius Black, or of Voldemort. Nothing."

Minerva McGonagall turned an unhealthy shade of crimson while Snape paled even more than usual.

"Outrageous," Sprout commented, sitting on her hands to dispel the urge to strangle something, thinking it would be quite lovely to send anonymously some Devil's Snare to Albus Dumbledore. "There is simply no excuse for this."

"No there is not," Flitwick angrily agreed. "I well understand the need for secrecy regarding our world, but for someone as important as young Mister Potter...Albus, you have badly miscalculated."

"Did you ever once check on that boy, Dumbledore?" Minerva hissed. "We've all seen it. How Potter recuses himself from touch; how he comes back each year impossibly thin; how he trembles when any adult other than Severus scolds him. What the hell happened to him in that Muggle house?"

"I do not know," Dumbledore whispered. "He will not speak of it with me, and probably for good reason. I am sure he holds me accountable."

"As well he should!" she roared. "I _told_ you! I told you before Hagrid ever brought Harry to that house. I warned you about those people!"

"They are his kin, Minerva. The blood wards were the only real protection afforded to Harry."

"Nonsense," Sprout insisted. "I have never bought into that excuse. There were any number of families willing to take him in who were more than capable of protecting him. He could have been raised here, with us, under the defenses of the castle. There have been exceptions in the past for orphans, and they certainly would have applied to the only child of James Potter and Lily Evans."

She paused, shaking her head as she thought of how to phrase her next words, before finally deciding she didn't, at the moment, care for tact.

"I could forgive a lapse of judgment Dumbledore, but that you knowingly send him back to that..._domicile_...year after year? No, that I cannot forgive." She stood. "I am finished. There is nothing more you could say that I wish to hear. My House is noted for its loyalty, but be warned that my loyalty to you has almost run its course. If you wish to appoint a new faculty member, that is within your discretion, but know this: I will be keeping a careful watch on that boy this year..."

"As will I," Flitwick interjected.

She turned to her colleague and nodded. "And if we see anything untoward, if we see that boy being manipulated or abused in any fashion by anyone, we _will_ take action, and if that results in the loss of a Headmaster, so be it. I refuse to be a pawn anymore, nor will I allow you to play recklessly with the lives of _children_. You may have leverage with Severus, but you have no power over me. You will not be able to bend me to your will so easily, Albus. Never again."

She took her leave.

Flitwick then stood. "Pomona speaks for me, as well. Remember, Albus, I was here before you. Whether or not you remain here after all of this depends on how you handle this situation. I hope you make the right decision."

Nodding to McGonagall and Snape, both of whom stared after him, he left.

"Dumbledore," Snape sighed, running a hand over his face, "you have fucked up."

"Indeed," Minerva agreed, her lips pursed.

"I made the best decisions I could at the time."

"No," Snape countered. "You made the decisions you did based on some grand master plan which you have convinced yourself is the only viable alternative and which you refuse to share with anyone else."

Minerva nodded, albeit grudgingly.

"If Potter truly is our only salvation against the Dark Lord," Snape continued, "you have wasted eleven years of his life. He should have been trained much sooner. As it is, he is far behind where someone of his potential should be, even in Defense. While he excels rather remarkably in the more difficult areas of that field, he is severely lacking in essentials. You allowed me to believe that he understood his role in all of this. Instead, you threw him to the wolves and allowed a child to sink or swim. It's amazing the boy is still alive."

"Why, Severus," Dumbledore twinkled, "one would think you cared."

"I don't. I care about the Dark Lord's defeat, and Potter is the only one who has managed to accomplish this, not just once, but several times. You never have. You not only perpetuated but encouraged my delusion that he was an attention-seeking brat who was in this for glory. I summarily dismissed his fear as good acting, his accomplishments as dumb luck. Had I truly understood what the brat has endured, I would have used different methods in teaching him."

He closed his eyes and shook his head. "Why did you do this, Albus? If you had explained things, so much might have been prevented: Quirrell, the death of the Diggory boy, the Dark Lord's resurrection. Regardless of my personal feelings, Potter deserved better. You owed him, Albus, and you owed his parents. You owed all of us. No matter what Potter believes, I will always regret submitting to the Dark Lord. Once I thought turning to you would be my salvation, but now I am forced to consider that you are simply the lesser of two evils."

Dumbledore sighed heavily.

"This was all orchestrated, wasn't it?" McGonagall growled. "From the very beginning. You kept him separated from his magic, from our world, and to what end? To make him strong? To make him self-reliant? To build his determination? Rubbish!

"And what was the cost? What did the boy have to endure in order for you to make your plan a reality? We shall probably never know. I doubt even Weasley or Granger are aware of the damage you have inflicted upon that child for, if they were, Weasley would be in my office pleading to allow Potter to return with him to the Burrow and Granger would turn away from you so sharply that the snap might break all our necks. It would be unwise to anger that girl."

She pointed a finger at him. "Mark my words, Albus: with her goes both boys, and perhaps a good portion of your allies."

"Potter is not your weapon, Dumbledore," Snape spat. "He is a _child_, and he is far more powerful and vulnerable than I think even you are aware; he is perhaps even unstable. What will happen when he realizes your schemes? What will happen when he turns on you? Because make no mistake, Albus, he will. Eventually, he will determine your machinations and he will vilify you, and where does that leave the rest of us? Dead like Black? Exiled with Lupin? Slaves to the Dark Lord? How many more have to die?"

Minerva nodded. "You stood back, refusing to interfere when the press maligned that boy, when they blamed him for poor Diggory's death, when they accused him of being mad about Voldemort's return. Do you know he still has nightmares almost every night about Diggory? Do you know how often he has awakened his dorm mates by screaming for the boy?

"You forced a _child_ to participate in the Triwizard Tournament! I should have known then, but no, I allowed emotion and blind trust to overrule reason. Rules, indeed! All you had to do was declare a draw and have the contestants resubmit their names. Upholding some ridiculous ordinance when the fundamental entry laws were perverted? Nonsense! A minor cannot be compelled to honor a magical contract!"

"By the gods," a horrified Snape whispered. "It was you, wasn't it? You meant for him to compete all along! We all thought it was Crouch, but it was _you_." He gave a bitter chuckle. "Oh, you might not have slipped the brat's name into the Goblet, but neither were you surprised when the cup regurgitated it. You knew it was going to happen, and if Crouch hadn't taken the initiative, you would have."

McGonagall gasped. "Of course! It could have been no one else. What were you thinking?" she screeched. "A fourteen year old boy pitted against dragons? Maybe you are just as senile as many have long proclaimed!"

"I had my reasons," Dumbledore calmly contended.

"And they were the wrong ones!" Snape roared, bringing his fist down on the Headmaster's desk.

"And as of now, they are finished," Minerva declared. "I will not allow you to interfere any more in this boy's life. The entire wizarding world has placed their burdens on the thin, trembling shoulders of a child; a child who, for all accounts, has been systematically beaten down into submission. It is pathetic. _You_ are pathetic, Albus. The fact that he continues to rally says more about the boy's character than any of your so-called reasons. What happens when he decides to give up? How far away do you think he is from deeming it all worthless and either disappearing or simply taking himself out of the equation?"

"Minerva!" Dumbledore scolded.

"Don't you _dare_," she snarled. "For all we know, he may have already tried. You have allowed yourself to disregard the very real fact that, whatever else he is, Harry is a human being. There is more to his life than Voldemort!" She curled a lip. "Heed my warning, Albus, for I won't give you another: stay away from him. If Severus and I have put all of this together in only a few minutes, Merlin only knows what's been percolating in Potter's head these past years and with whom he might have shared those thoughts."

The Headmaster stared and McGonagall glared right back. Snape smirked at both of them.

After several moments, Dumbledore again cleared his throat. "Harry is coming to the castle today to discuss his class selection for the upcoming term. Luna Lovegood will be accompanying him."

"Tremendous," Snape sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "He has added yet another to his collection of strays."

"Miss Lovegood will surprise everyone, I think."

"Another scheme? Another intuit?" McGonagall sneered. "So be it. If Potter has become her friend, perhaps there is something more to the girl than her dazed approach to life suggests; she is a Ravenclaw, after all." She nodded once. "Very well. I will take this meeting. As his Head of House, that is my right. If he wishes to speak with you, I will return him to your office."

"Very well."

She snorted. "I'm sure your spies or your spells or whatever it is you have in this castle that informs you of every whispered conversation will no doubt report back to you the particulars, so do not think me so daft as to believe you are capitulating out of guilt or magnanimousness."

The Headmaster glared, but the witch remained unmoved.

"Now," she continued, "about this Muggle teacher. I want the truth and I want it immediately."

Albus sighed. "As I stated before, every class has more and more Muggleborns. We are doing them a disservice by not better addressing their transition into our world. A large portion of the Muggleborns of each graduating class often choose to attend Muggle university, and they are ill-prepared for the curriculum. Having a Muggle on staff will afford these children someone to speak with, a counselor if you will."

"And how does that translate to a faculty position?" Snape demanded.

"There is more you don't know."

McGonagall and Snape turned to each other, sighed, and rolled their eyes.

"Well of course there is," they groaned.

* * *

Harry was slurping down his sundae with relish, delighting at the explosion of flavors across his palate, and was startled out of his reverie as a shadow fell across the table.

"Hello, Harry," said a dreamy voice.

"Luna!" He immediately stood and gave the slight girl an enormous hug, and she kissed him gently on the cheek.

"How are you?" she asked. "Really?"

"Today's a good day," he smiled. "Much better now that you're here."

"I'm glad," she replied, smiling and nodding in gratitude as he pulled out her chair. "The Heliopaths freed from Fudge's tyranny suggested as much," she confided, "but I thought it best to ask you directly. You can't really trust them, you know."

They sat and looked at each other.

"Sirius?" she prompted.

"It's becoming…manageable," Harry whispered, his eyes still trapped in her even gaze.

"You're fine, but not okay?"

"That's it exactly," he said, a small smile on his face.

She nodded once. "So, tell me about these plans of yours." She finally noticed all of the packages surrounding him, shrunken and otherwise. "And about these, as well. Your last letter left quite a lot to be desired, I'll have you know." She peered at him more closely. "Seen the twins, have you?"

"You're firing on all cylinders today, aren't you, Luna?" he smirked, eyes sparkling.

"Muggle phrase," she noted. "Apparently I am. It must be the company."

His face lighted and he leaned forward, whispering his ideas and pressing a sheaf of papers into her hand.

Luna sat and absorbed the information, finding it quite fascinating, and then read the letters, which were even more intriguing. She was so very glad that she and Harry were closer friends now. He was so interesting!

Still, she worried about the leprechaun who was lurking behind him, dancing a jig.

After all, leprechauns were notorious perverts.

* * *

Dumbledore delighted in the looks on the faces of McGonagall and Snape, picturing that this must have been how he had looked after Narcissa had dumped this information in his lap.

"Muggle witches and wizards?" McGonagall repeated. "With no ties to our world? No wizarding heritage? Entirely wandless magic?"

"Mouth of Hell?" Snape croaked.

The Headmaster nodded.

"And what of this person? This new teacher?" Minerva barked, recovering her glower.

"I honestly have no idea. Plans were made via an envoy. All I do know is that this person, whomever they may be, is in need of asylum. They are a True Seer."

"Sweet Merlin," McGonagall breathed.

"You are speaking of a conduit," Snape sharply said. "A direct link between the Powers That Be and one of these so-called Champions."

Again, Dumbledore nodded. "This person is apparently a Champion in their own right."

"How is all of this possible?" McGonagall questioned.

"I rather believe that question has been asked by any number of our Muggleborn students the moment they receive their Hogwarts letter," Dumbledore smoothly replied.

"What is this person to teach?" Snape asked. "Divination? Are you finally replacing that twit?"

"No," Albus replied. "It goes no further than the three of us, and Poppy, the nature of this person's gift. Can you imagine what would happen were Voldemort to learn of their existence?"

"Fuck," McGonagall softly swore.

"Minerva!" Snape snickered. "Whatever would your Gryffindors say?"

"I imagine they'd say exactly the same thing," she primly answered.

"Indeed."

"All right, then, Albus," McGonagall snarled, "out with it. What is it you intend to do with this person? The only open position is Defense, and even I doubt you're that daft."

Dumbledore smiled. "Thank you for your confidence, Minerva."

"You're lucky I have any at all left," she said, tone cold and filled with reproach.

He sighed. "Yes, I am aware. Right, then. Sybill will remain as Professor of Divination for the time being, along with Firenze. Severus, you will be taking over Defense, with the caveat that you will continue to produce the Wolfsbane potion for Remus Lupin."

"You're not serious!" both McGonagall and Snape sputtered.

"Indeed I am."

"You cannot mean to have me instruct Potter in Defense!" Snape bellowed. "Not only would he never agree, you would be giving the Dark Lord even more access to the boy's mind!"

"Which is why you will also be continuing his instruction in Occlumency."

"Absolutely not."

"You will, Severus. That you both deplore the sessions is of no consequence to me. Harry must learn the art, and that is final. It is the only chance he has to keep Voldemort from manipulating his thoughts and actions. Like it or not, you are the only one qualified to instruct him. I cannot do it, as I suspect that your earlier statement is, in fact, true. Harry no longer trusts me as he once did, and that would interfere with his progress.

"The fact that he does not trust you at all is actually a gift, for he will strive all the more to keep you out of those memories he does not wish you to see, and that should help accelerate the construction of his shields. However, certain conditions will apply, for both of you. We will speak more of this at a later time."

Snape set his jaw but held his tongue. Yes, conditions indeed.

"Now," Dumbledore continued, "as to the position. I have decided to make Muggle Studies mandatory for all first through fourth year students. They will be required to endeavor in the course until they qualify for their OWL. I cannot impose this restriction upon the Seventh Years, however, so they will be exempt. I ask that both of you begin meeting with Professor Babbling to coordinate those aspects of wizarding society which you believe should be included in the class."

Snape was secretly pleased. For once, one of the old fool's ideas had merit. "Potions," he promptly said. "Had I been informed that Potter had been brought up as a Muggle, I would have realized that his complete incompetence in the course had nothing to do with a lack of intelligence on his part – _perhaps_ – but simply a matter of gross ignorance, which is easily remedied. Ignorance is curable; stupidity is eternal."

He glared at Dumbledore and left no doubt as to which he believed the Headmaster, but Albus replied with a benign smile.

McGonagall swallowed her snicker at their antics. "Severus has raised a good point. _Finally_. I think it has been taken for granted that Muggleborns would simply adapt once they found themselves within the walls of the school. We have to remember that their previous educations consisted of methods with which we are largely unfamiliar and subjects which are not taught here. It is a bit unreasonable to assume an easy transition from arithmetic to Arithmancy.

"Most Muggle children are not instructed in a second language until secondary school, so Ancient Runes, which is so far removed from a modern language as to be ridiculous, must come as quite a shock. Potions is a difficult and exacting field, and we have poorly served our Muggleborn students by not adequately preparing them before they enter Hogwarts. Currently, we hold no classes related to Wizarding Law or Wizarding Customs, so it should not come as a surprise that more than half of those Muggleborns who graduate then turn their backs on our world. It has never been properly explained to them."

Dumbledore sighed. "As you have been saying for years, Minerva. Yes, I should have listened to you and students have suffered for my hubris, but this is not the time to discuss these things."

Snape and McGonagall snorted. Loudly.

The Headmaster cleared his throat. "The Fifth and Sixth Years will be required to take a new class: Muggle Literature and Dramatics. That is the position this new person will fill."

Snape sneered. "Literature? Are you completely spare?"

"Actually," a thoughtful Minerva interjected, "it's a rather good idea. There is some wonderful Muggle literature in existence, and the students do need to be instructed in how to write a thoughtful and intelligent essay. Too many of them rely on merely transcribing facts from books without bothering to learn the theory behind them. Instruction in literature will encourage critical thinking and analytical skills in a majority of the students who are sorely lacking. Further, it will force them to think like Muggles, to learn how Muggles experience life and resolve their struggles."

Dumbledore smiled, but Snape remained unconvinced. "And how is it you propose to implement this plan? I can guarantee that many of the students will rebel, particularly those of Slytherin House."

"They can complain all they wish," the Headmaster replied. "Neither they nor their parents have any control over the academic curriculum. If they do not like it, they can look into attending another institution, but I think we all know that will most likely never happen. Those who sympathize with Voldemort will wish to keep their children here as spies, and those who do not know there is no safer place for their children to reside than Hogwarts."

"I highly doubt it will be that simple," Severus contended.

"Perhaps not," Albus demurred, "but either way, it is out of their hands. Muggle Studies is an established and perfectly acceptable course. I also believe that a simple challenge to those who would prefer not to take the class will compel them to do just that: if they are made to believe that it is doubted they could achieve an OWL in the subject, or if they believe others might think them inferior to the Muggleborns who excel in the discipline, they will rush to prove otherwise."

Snape grunted. "That is an...intriguing idea."

Dumbledore beamed. "Now, there are several things which must be undertaken. First, appropriate quarters must be appointed. I need to apprise Poppy of this situation. Severus, there are several potions I will need you to brew in preparation for this person's arrival."

"Such as?" Snape drawled.

"Determinative elixirs. This person may have innate magical ability of which they are unaware. We need to ascertain that ability, for instruction must be given. We need to know their strengths and weaknesses, possible Animagus traits, and the like. I honestly have no idea if the Americas have in place a system such as ours to identify Muggleborns."

Severus nodded and began mentally preparing lists of spells and ingredients.

"American?" Minerva repeated. "This person is an American?"

Snape curled a lip.

Dumbledore glared at both of them. "I will not tolerate such foolishness from either one of you. It is certainly no secret that the majority of wizarding Europe views the United Kingdom as inferior, so you would be ill-advised to perpetuate that same prejudice with regard to Americans. Let us not forget they have never produced a single Dark Lord, while we have produced many. Instead there are several Light Lords and Ladies to which they may lay claim."

"And who is to take over Potions for Severus?" asked an embarrassed McGonagall.

At this, Snape raised an eyebrow.

"I will," Dumbledore said. "I myself am a Potions Master, and there are very few qualified instructors on record in Britain. If I can successfully procure an acceptable candidate within the month, than I shall be happy to relinquish my current plan of action. Minerva, I will need to you amend all outgoing letters, both to new and returning students, to make them aware of this new course. Materials will be provided by the school so that there are no additional financial penalties for families to consider."

"As you wish," she tartly replied.

Suddenly, the fireplace began glowing.

"Ah," Dumbledore noted. "That will be our young Mister Potter. If you two would please excuse me. Minerva, I shall send Harry to you shortly."

She nodded and left the room. Snape followed, his robes angrily billowing out behind him.

* * *

Amelia Bones, the interim Minister of Magic, ignored the piles of work on her desk which demanded her immediate attention, preferring instead to reread for the umpteenth time the letter delivered to her home last night by house elf, startling both her and her niece, Susan. While she had encountered numerous surprises since Cornelius Fudge had been ousted by a vote of no-confidence from the Wizengamot and she had been installed temporarily in his place, nothing had taken her more aback than a communiqué from Harry Potter.

After she had read the contents and pondered them for a while, she had approached her niece and subtly interrogated the girl about what she knew of her classmate. Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, Susan had known little other than that which most of Britain's wizarding population was already aware: how Harry lived with Muggles during the summer; his close relationship with Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley, and indeed the entire Weasley family with the exception of Percy; how the students frequently turned against him when something dodgy occurred, whether or not such an event had anything to do with the boy.

Susan also had explained how Cedric Diggory had stood up to his own House for Harry during the tournament, insisting the boy had not put his name into the Goblet. The girl had proceeded to relate a few more stories, but the overall impression Amelia received from her niece was that Susan was quite impressed with Harry Potter, though in a quiet and considerate manner. This only reaffirmed Amelia's own perceptions of the boy.

The more Susan talked, the more Amelia had realized that she herself knew little of what actually occurred at the school, and she chastised her myopia. These past years had been so consuming as she silently fought behind the scenes in the Ministry to roust Fudge while performing her duties as a member of the Wizengamot, that she had been complacent in her duties as Susan's aunt.

While she had a place on the Board of Governors of the school, she had allowed herself to be lulled into a sense of security by Dumbledore, despite the odd occurrences which took place with regularity at Hogwarts. She cursed herself for allowing his damnable twinkle to override her caution. She had never fully trusted Dumbledore and had flatly refused more than once his invitation to join his ridiculous and illicit Order.

The Potter boy's letter certainly reinforced her opinion of the Headmaster. Amelia had read the epistle several times with disbelieving eyes until cold fury asserted itself and settled her loyalty firmly in Potter's camp. How could the boy not know such things? What had Dumbledore been telling him? More importantly, what had the old man left out? Quite a lot, apparently. It was disgraceful. The entire wizarding world was dependent on a child to save it, while its de facto leader was content to let that child languish in ignorance. She should have looked into this before, back when Susan was in her first year, probably even before that, but no, she had wanted to believe Dumbledore's half-truths and machinations because it was easier and she had thought other things more important. Merlin, James and Lily would have been ashamed of her.

Amelia Bones snapped out of her fog and gently laid Harry's letter aside. Bureaucracy could wait; this could not. She sat back in her chair and crossed her legs, wondering who else in the Ministry she could truly trust. She was sure that already factions were forming against her, despite the temporary appointment, and she had yet to decide if she would run during the next general election. She didn't have Fudge's patience for politics and she was no bootlicker; thus, she would need an operative whom not only she could trust, but one who would trust Potter and vice versa.

She looked outside her door where young Percy Weasley was waiting for an audience. She had a good mind to sack him immediately for his ridiculous support and defense of Fudge and Umbridge. His love of power guaranteed that, despite his learnedness, he was an idiot. It was true that he appeared contrite - for the moment - but how could any man, a Gryffindor no less, disown himself from his family for the sake of a entry-level job? It was pathetic!

Still, he might have other uses.

Amelia then considered Nymphadora Tonks. She knew the young woman was an excellent Auror but was also a member of that damnable Order, so her loyalties were in question. Amelia got the sense that Tonks liked Potter a great deal, but was convinced that the woman answered ultimately not to Harry or the Ministry, but to Dumbledore. Amelia wasn't willing to risk Albus catching on to any of her plans. Not until she wanted him to, at any rate.

She was jolted out of her thoughts when Tonks herself burst through the door, panting heavily, her eyes wild.

"Minister! Harry was attacked in Diagon Alley!"

Amelia stood and took note of Percy's horrified gasp. "Death Eaters?"

Tonks shook her head, somewhat sadly, Amelia noted.

"They were just ordinary people," the Auror whispered, her disbelief plain. "At first, they wanted autographs and conversation, but then they converged and began molesting him. They nearly ripped the clothes right off his body! When he tried to get away, it got ugly. They screamed and ranted that Harry owed them, that he should die for them. Several even offered to help him with that, convinced it would placate You-Know-Who to leave all of us alone."

Bones's expression became murderous. The very idea that grown adults would accost a child in a public place in broad daylight because they were scared was _outrageous_. If they had listened over a year ago when Potter had warned everyone, this panic could have been avoided.

Blasted Fudge! He had managed to malign Potter so badly in the press that most people were convinced the boy was either insane or on the verge of becoming the next Voldemort, yet they still believed him their only hope. Pitiful.

And where the hell had Dumbledore been in the middle of _that_ fiasco? Sitting in his office and playing with his toys and sucking on his infernal lemon drops, no doubt. Well, this wasn't Fudge's ministry anymore, and wizarding Britain was in for a rude awakening.

"First things first. Is Potter well?" she demanded.

Tonks nodded. "A couple of healing and mending spells, and he went on his way to see the Weasley twins."

Bones looked past Tonks to Percy, whose head raised sharply at the mention of his brothers. The Minister could see the young man's eyes were pained; still, she was wary of his sincerity. Perhaps a small test was in order.

"It's only a matter of time before _The Prophet_ gets a hold of this and goes after Harry again," Tonks fretted.

"We'll just see about that," Amelia snorted, nibbling on a delightful little morsel Potter's letter had revealed about a certain reporter. "Tonks, bring in young Mister Weasley and have a seat. There is much to discuss."

* * *

"Headmaster," Harry nodded.

Luna said nothing.

"Hello Harry, Miss Lovegood," Dumbledore greeted them. "How are you both?"

"Fine, sir, thank you," the boy politely replied.

Luna remained silent, staring, and unnerving Dumbledore all the more for doing so. It was rare someone had the tenacity to engage in eye contact with him for any length of time. Perhaps he too had underestimated the girl, and now he wondered how much that mistake would cost him.

As if reading his thoughts, Luna raised an eyebrow to let him know that she knew exactly what he was thinking and that, yes, he had a right to be worried. Instantly, her face smoothed as she once again donned her trademark vagueness.

Dumbledore blinked. The girl's mask was quite disarming, and even now he wondered how much of it was an act or whether her moments of lucidity were simply fleeting.

"Excellent, excellent. Now, Harry, it is my understanding you wish to discuss your courses for the upcoming term?"

"Correct, sir."

"Very well. You shall do so with Professor McGonagall in her office. As your Head of House, curriculum guidance is her responsibility, one in which she takes exceptional pride in delivering. Miss Lovegood, of course, is welcome to accompany you."

"Thank you sir," Harry responded. "However, I should like to speak with Madam Pomfrey first, if possible."

Dumbledore became concerned. "Are you not well, dear boy?"

"I just have some questions."

The Headmaster frowned. "Very well. You will find her in the Infirmary."

Harry nodded. "Thank you for your help, Professor. We shall see you again shortly."

Dumbledore nodded and Harry left, Luna floating after him and not giving so much as a passing glance back at the Headmaster.

"What are you up to, child?" the old man muttered, wondering to which he was referring.

* * *

"Poppy! Is it all clear?"

Madam Pomfrey looked up from her desk, her face a stormy mask of annoyance at the whispered intrusion until she discovered the speaker. At once her features relaxed into one of rare and undisguised pleasure as she saw the head of Harry Potter peeking in at her from behind a swinging door. After his first year, he had spent so much time in her domain, she had insisted that he address her by her given name when they were in private. Though it had taken him another two years to accomplish such a foreboding task, they had come to enjoy an extremely warm and congenial relationship.

"Harry!" she beamed. "What are you doing here? No one told me you were coming." She cocked an eyebrow. "Isn't it a little early in the year for you to be in the Infirmary, young man?"

He snickered and entered the room as she waved him in. He had left Luna in the hall, searching for pixies whom, as she had explained, flitted about the hospital wing in relentless pursuit of wizarding hair with which to build their nests.

Poppy narrowed her eyes. "I'm detecting traces of healing spells. What happened." She watched him gulp and presumed that whatever had occurred would displease her.

"I was mobbed in Diagon Alley," he confessed.

Her mouth settled into a thin, grim line. She noted from his choice of verb that what most likely had transpired was that some of Harry's more aggressive _fans_ had gotten out of control, for had he been attacked by Death Eaters, he would have said as much. She did not appreciate that the boy gave blanket dispensation to those rabid individuals who believed they were entitled to a piece of him, as though he were cake. She stood and, from a distance, ran some quick diagnostic spells to determine if further care was needed.

"Adequate," she grudgingly admitted. "Who was the caster?"

"Tonks."

She grunted. Not the best, but certainly not inept, which was in and of itself surprising. She walked around and stood before her desk in more appropriate greeting, careful to ensure she was in his line of sight at all times. Sometimes he permitted her to hug him, but she well knew that he much preferred being the one to instigate an embrace. When he rushed into her arms, she concluded it was indeed a good day, despite the earlier scene, though she frowned at how prominent his vertebrae were. Nutrient potions would be necessary.

"Now," she briskly said after he broke the gesture, "what can I do for you?"

He blushed and ducked his head. "Well, I have a favor to ask."

She nodded. "Which would explain the hug," she said, though she tempered the sharp remark with a smile. "Very well. What is it?"

He raised hopeful eyes. "I thought perhaps you might allow me to intern with you this year?"

Her eyes widened. "Here? In the Infirmary? But you hate it here!"

"I hate being a patient," he qualified, grinning, "but I'm rather fond of the company."

"Cheeky! You are entirely too charming for your own good," she scowled. "Your father would be inordinately proud of this moment."

His nose scrunched as he upped the cuteness factor.

She sighed in resignation, having not yet developed a defense for that particular maneuver. "Before I consider this, I wish you to explain your reasons for asking."

His eyes became grave. "Because I know what's expected of me once I leave Hogwarts, Poppy, if he doesn't come for me sooner. I don't want to be an Auror anymore. I don't want to dedicate my life to taking the lives of others."

She snapped her mouth closed and set her jaw, determined not to cry at the frank and rather depressing admission. She swallowed heavily.

"An admirable conclusion and a good reason to study mediwizardry," she declared. "You have my permission. As soon as you know your schedule, send me an owl and we'll determine your hours."

"Really?"

Poppy smoothed his hair and disregarded his rather befuddled expression. "You're a very bright boy, Harry, and an exceptionally powerful wizard. I have no doubt you will succeed. However, I demand that you study hard and pay attention. We will be dealing at times with serious injuries, and I will tolerate neither foolishness nor laziness. While you will by no means have your own patients, I will come to depend on your assistance. You will be here at the appointed times; you will not skip out or skive off; you will complete all of your assignments on time and without the assistance of Miss Granger. Is that understood?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Excellent. Now," she began, as she made her way back over to her desk, "I am going to give you a list of preliminary reading materials. I want you obtain these as soon as possible. If you have any difficulty in doing this, you are to notify me at once. In order for this practicum to be effective, you will have to maintain the grades in your other classes. Have you learned your OWL scores yet?"

He nodded and dug the sheet out of his pocket, handing it over into the woman's already-outstretched hand, as he took in his other the list she already held. He would send a school owl to Flourish and Blotts before leaving Hogwarts.

"You haven't opened them," she noted.

He looked down at his shuffling feet. "I'm not sure I want to."

She rolled her eyes. "May I?" At his nod, she ripped open the envelope and silently read the document. "This is...rather remarkable," she allowed.

Harry frowned. "How so?"

She gave a haughty sniff. "Well, Mister Potter, you certainly have no further excuse to claim ever again ignorance or lack of cleverness. In fact, should you ever do so in my presence, I will personally box your ears."

His eyes widened.

"You honestly have no idea?" she asked, her brows drawn.

He shrugged. "Well, I think I did well on Defense, and probably Charms, but I know I flunked Divination and most likely History of Magic."

"Well, you're mostly right," she snorted, and held out the record, which he warily accepted.

He sighed, braced himself, and began reading.

* * *

**Ordinary Wizarding Level Results**

_**Harry James Potter**_** has received:  
**

Astronomy ... (O/E)  
Care of Magical Creatures ... (O/O)  
Charms ... (O/O)*  
Defense Against the Dark Arts ... (O/O)*  
Divination ... (A/P)  
Herbology ... (O/O)  
History of Magic ... (A)  
Potions ... (E/O)  
Transfiguration ... (O/O)

**Total O.W.L.s Earned****: 18**

_Please note that there are varying determining factors in computing the final scores, not limited to but including raw magical power, strength of performance, length of spellcasting, and others. Those courses which have both Theory and Practical portions have been assigned a score for each.  
_

Special Notes:

_Congratulations, _**Harry Potter**_! Your exceptional scores and the breadth of knowledge and power you displayed on your Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts exams have qualified you for NEWT level credit in those disciplines. As such, the Founders' Award for Magical Excellence has been conferred upon you. Information regarding the award ceremony will be delivered by owl at a later date. Incidentally, it might please you know that this award was last presented to your mother, _**Lily Evans**_.  
_  
Class Standings:

1. Hermione Granger (Gryffindor)  
2. Padma Patil (Ravenclaw)  
3. Harry Potter (Gryffindor)  
4. Daphne Greengrass (Slytherin)  
5. Lisa Turpin (Ravenclaw)  
6. Susan Bones (Hufflepuff)

7. Blaise Zabini (Slytherin)

8. Justin Finch-Fletchley (Hufflepuff)  
9. Seamus Finnigan (Gryffindor)  
10. Ronald Weasley (Gryffindor)

* * *

Poppy watched with amusement as Harry's face shifted from fear to disbelief to shock and, finally, to sadness. She gathered he must have read the portion referring to his mother.

"You're quite a bit like her, you know," she quietly said.

Harry looked up at her and blinked furiously. "Like my mum? But everyone else says I'm like my dad."

"You _look_ like your father, yes, except for the eyes, of course, and I'm sure you've grown quite annoyed at both descriptions. And yes, you often display several of your father's characteristics, but those who knew your mother well see much of her within you. Lily was an extremely gifted witch, much along the lines of Miss Granger. While I know that many thought it strange that you and Hermione became so close so quickly, those of us who knew your mother were unsurprised."

"Poppy! Hermione and I aren't dating!" he scolded.

She smirked. "Yes, well, your mother and father, before anything else, were best friends. But I digress. Lily was exceptional in practically everything, and her sheer determination ensured that she would excel in that to which she set her mind. You have her tenacity, Harry, and you have her intelligence." She frowned and looked at him more closely. "I gather most people who knew your parents remark only on the physical resemblances, or that James played Quidditch, yes?"

Harry nodded. "So many people expect me to be like my dad. Sirius, Remus, even Snape. I guess I've just become used to it, though I'm not really sure how much like him I am truly am. It's not like I have anything to go by, do I?" He sighed and lowered his voice. "I've never...I try not to think about her, you know? About what she did, what she sacrificed. It...it _hurts_, Poppy. And part of me hates her for it, hates her for saving me and leaving me alone, and that makes me feel guilty and ungrateful."

This time, she didn't hesitate in engulfing him in an embrace. "The instinct to protect our young is far older than magic or even humanity, Harry," she whispered. "It's visceral, it's primal. Would you ever do less for your own child? Would you do less for Ron or Hermione? What about what you did for young Miss Weasley?"

"I never thought of it that way."

"Because in such instances, there is no time for thought. You do what needs to be done. It was more important to Lily that you survive." She paused. "Harry, you need to understand something. Whether or not you had been born, your parents were targets for Voldemort before they even married. That he came to Godric's Hollow that night had little to do with you. Oh, in the abstract, you were a large part of it, of course, but, and I'm sorry to be blunt, he had been trying to kill them for years. The bottom line is that their deaths are certainly not your fault."

He clung to her and wept like she doubted he ever had before. Indeed, despite his lengthy list of injuries and ailments, she had almost never seen him cry. That more than anything made her own eyes well. Poppy was startled when the doors to the Infirmary were suddenly thrown open and Luna charged into the room, wand drawn, and looking quite feral.

"Miss Lovegood!"

Luna ignored her. "Harry, are you all right?"

He nodded. "I'm fine. Just got a bit soppy over my OWL results."

The girl stalked over and thrust out her hand, and he gave her the parchment. She glanced at it restlessly and when she looked back up at him, she raised an eyebrow.

"Only an E in the Astronomy practical, Harry? Is it so difficult for you to look at stars? Perhaps you need new glasses. Madam Pomfrey, would you please check his prescription?"

Poppy gasped but Harry began snickering and loosened his grasp on her.

"Only you, Luna," he wheezed.

"Ronald will be pleased by his standing."

"I hope so."

Luna sighed in exasperation. "Harry, are you honestly going to apologize for being more gifted than Ronald? I know you're his friend and your modesty is admirable, but it's really past time you accepted that you're a powerful wizard. Your continued persistence that you are not is frankly boring, and the Heliopaths quite agree."

He giggled despite his best efforts.

"Miss Lovegood," Poppy said warily, "are you quite well?"

"Oh, I'm fine, Madam Pomfrey, thank you, but did you know you have a pixie infestation in the capital above the third window in the hall? You really should dispel them or they'll be attacking students for their hair. They quite prefer redheads, you know, so perhaps you should warn the Weasleys and Professor McGonagall."

Poppy gave the girl a ruthless appraisal. Luna Lovegood was as much her mother's child as Harry was his. It was tragic such two exceptional children had been forced to grow up without their mothers' love, though at least Luna had experienced it for a time. She was rather surprised not by Luna's storming into the room, not by her easy friendship with Harry Potter, and neither by the girl's subtle sense of humor nor obvious wisdom, but that Luna Lovegood had seen fit to appear sober in her presence. How interesting.

"Well, Mister Potter, shall we continue our discussion? Miss Lovegood, you are free to stay, but you will remain quiet."

Luna shrugged and plopped down on a bed, sticking her wand behind her ear and staring off.

"As I was saying, Harry, your scores are quite remarkable. I confess I never would have believed you would do so well in Potions," Poppy frankly stated.

"Me either!" he blurted.

She twitched her lips. "An O in Transfiguration; I'm quite sure Minerva was ecstatic. Os in Herbology and Charms, as well as your Potions score, will help you greatly with your internship, as will your O in Care of Magical Creatures. The fact the you earned NEWT level credit for both Charms and Defense speaks of your ability and tells me I can expect a lot from you.

"And make no mistake, Mister Potter," she added, waving a finger for emphasis, "I will have very high expectations. You've managed to earn an OWL in every course. Well," she snorted, "those which matter."

Harry snickered and though Poppy wished to join him, she refrained. "Now, do you know what classes you plan to take this year?"

He went through his list.

She frowned. "Harry, you do understand that if you are to consider mediwizardry as a career, you must continue with Potions?"

"With all due respect, ma'am, I think we both know that I will most likely not even be alive to have a career."

Luna clucked her tongue but said nothing.

"Do not dare speak such utter rubbish in my presence!" Poppy roared. "That kind of defeatist attitude will kill you much sooner than any Death Eater!" She lowered her voice. "Harry, I understand your desire to abandon Potions, but this score tells me you're far more talented than you believe, despite of the treatment you received from your...instructor."

She hemmed and hawed for minute. "Very well. I will tutor you privately in the potions you will need to learn for your internship, as well as any other you wish to learn to brew. Many healing potions are analogues for the more useless concoctions you would learn in class, but you should nevertheless learn them."

"I can't ask you to do that!" Harry protested.

"Well, it's a good thing you didn't ask, then, isn't it?" she briskly replied. "Now, then, you will learn whatever potions I decide you need to master, and you will brew them only in my presence until I am assured of your competency. In fact, I believe I will make that one of your primary duties, and then perhaps I shall not be forced to rely so much on Professor Snape for his," she sneered, "_generosity_."

"I simply do not have the time to brew potions on my own. You should learn more than enough to sit for your Potions NEWT." She nodded. "Now, I gather you also have an appointment with Minerva, and you would be wise not to keep her waiting. Inform her that you have my consent to intern here in the Infirmary and if she has any questions or concerns, she can broach them with me herself."

Harry blushed. "Thank you, Poppy."

She nodded gruffly. "Now get out, both of you!"

She watched in satisfaction as they made a hasty retreat and wondered why, according to her diagnostic spells, Harry was slightly more than one year older than he was supposed to be.

She doubted it meant anything good, but she'd keep it to herself. For now.

* * *

Viktor Krum frowned as he again read Harry's letter before laying it down next to him and rubbing his eyes with his hands.

When it had been delivered last night by a rather exhausted house elf, Viktor had been surprised and not a little scared, dreading that he was about to be informed of Hermione's death. After word had leaked out of Harry's escapade in the Ministry, Viktor had been horrified to learn that Hermione had been attacked by that cretin Dolohov. It had taken all of his self-control not to give chase to that murderer and exact vengeance. It disgusted him that he was distantly related to such a loathsome man.

A cooler head had prevailed, however, and he had refrained, knowing that such action might do more harm than good. He didn't want to bring unnecessary attention to Hermione and further compromise her safety. Of course, he realized, she also would have likely hexed him into oblivion.

He gave a small smile. She was an uncommonly clever witch and had known what she was doing when she had aligned herself with Harry. The last thing she'd want was him swooping in and trying to rescue her. She didn't need a hero; she already was one.

Viktor sighed. He wished he had been more faithful in his correspondence with Hermione, but his training and touring schedules left little time for friends, though he still did consider her a close friend and hoped she thought the same. She had been the only one during the Tournament to be unimpressed by him, which had made him all the more impressed with her. His fellow Durmstrang students had indicated that this was so because Hermione was a lowly Muggleborn and thus was ignorant of his importance.

He snorted at the reminiscence. Hermione was about as ignorant as Athena and almost as powerful.

No, she had treated him as if he were any other boy, and it had been a long time since he had felt that kind of freedom. She liked him because of who he was; because he was Viktor. Sometimes he forgot that people might want to be his friend not just because he caught a Snitch.

Of course, Harry had been equally kind to him, not even asking for so much as an autograph, which left little hope that Viktor could ask for an autograph of his own. When he had returned to Bulgaria after his time at Hogwarts, all his friends and family wanted to know about was Harry Potter.

Not the Tournament, not Voldemort, but Harry.

The more Viktor had thought about Harry, the more curious he had become. His interactions with the younger boy had been brief and superficial, as most contact between contestants was barred lest it seem they were colluding together in the Tournament.

On first glance - actually, on the first several glances - Harry Potter hadn't seemed particularly remarkable, but the First Task had been an eye-opening experience for Viktor. As he had watched Harry outrace a dragon - and how embarrassed he had been for never thinking to summon his own broom! - the boy's Seeker reflexes absolutely amazing for his age, and Viktor had understood finally why Harry Potter had been named a Champion.

Not that he had believed the boy had placed his name in the Goblet in the first place. There was no way he had believed Harry would have subjected himself to that. When he had later overheard Diggory telling Harry that he believed him when Harry said he hadn't entered, Viktor had most of his questions answered. Then, at the hope and happiness which had sparkled in Harry's eyes at Cedric's affirmation, he had all of his questions answered.

Harry liked boys.

Harry had liked Cedric.

It made Viktor very sad that Harry had never told Cedric, for he was fairly certain Cedric had liked Harry as well.

The news was not about Hermione, however; she was apparently safe, thank the gods. Instead, he had found out more about Harry Potter and his friends than he ever wished to know, which meant he had some tough decisions to make.

His initial reading of the missive had left him stunned. He had then read it several more times in an effort to comprehend exactly what Harry was telling him. Viktor had experienced myriad emotions in those minutes before sending his owl to inform his manager that he was taking an immediate leave of absence of unspecified duration. He wanted to be ready to depart at a moment's notice when Harry sent for him.

He would help his Hermione. He would help his Harry.

Viktor retrieved from his bedside table a letter he should have delivered more than a year ago after it had been entrusted to him, but had never been able to bring himself to do so. Perhaps now was the time.

* * *

Harry knocked hesitantly on McGonagall's heavy oak door, somewhat hoping he had been quiet enough so that she hadn't heard him and he could go away, return to the Dursleys, try to ignore what he learned in Gringotts, and not worry about Hogwarts until September.

He so didn't want to do this. Certainly not now, and quite possibly never. Poppy was one animal, but McGonagall was in a whole other league, one in which he was sure he wouldn't have made the cut even as the water boy. Luna squeezed his hand in support.

"Come in, Mister Potter!" called McGonagall's clipped voice.

"Just remember what I told you," Luna whispered, "and stay true to what you want to do. No one can force you to do otherwise; not even Dumbledore. Even he has his limits, Harry."

Harry doubted that, but gave a hesitant nod and opened the door. Luna discreetly followed him.

"Good afternoon, Mister Potter, Miss Lovegood," McGonagall nodded. "Your presence is not required, young lady."

"I'd like Luna to stay, please, ma'am," Harry said.

She stared at him for a moment before her gaze slid over to the girl, who was staring at empty space. Sighing and not seeing the harm, she nodded and waved a hand to indicate they should take the seats before her desk.

"Very well. Let's discuss, then." She waited until they had sat down and folded her hands before her. "I'm afraid I do not understand the purpose of this meeting, Mister Potter. You have already selected your courses for the coming term."

"And I'd like to change them, please."

"Explain."

He faltered and looked at his hands, blushing.

"Mister Potter…Harry," Minerva said more sedately, "what is it you wish to do?"

He raised his eyes to meet hers, ignoring how his mouth went dry. "I want to drop everything but Transfiguration."

She blinked and tried to process the request, but she was too stunned. "You what!"

He flinched and looked to Luna, who shook her head.

"No, Harry. This was your idea, and you must speak for yourself. You know what you want to do, so now tell the Professor. You can't expect people to read your mind and there will not always be someone there to make you feel better." She gave a small smile. "This is your life, Harry. Make it into something you want."

"Well said, Miss Lovegood," said a startled McGonagall. Perhaps Albus wasn't wrong about the girl. Then again, she figured the Headmaster was due for an astute prediction. "Mister Potter, I can't help you if you don't tell me how. Now, why do you wish to drop your other courses?"

"May I speak freely, ma'am?"

She blinked again, this time with relief. While she appreciated that she kept her students on their toes, the downside was that they were often on their guard around her, which was both good and bad – those students with whom she didn't want to be close avoided her, but those in whom she took a healthy interest were too often intimidated – not to mention Albus had kept Potter well isolated from almost the entire faculty, though she was aware that in addition to herself, Poppy and Flitwick had much affection for the boy.

She nodded. "I wish you would."

He absently scratched his head. "History of Magic is a useless course," he blurted, appearing surprised by his own bluntness. "I honestly cannot fathom what the Headmaster is thinking by allowing a ghost to teach that class," he added, now picking at his scar. "Everyone falls asleep and Hermione is the only one I've ever seen in the past five years who actually bothers to take notes. Most people skip the lectures and read the assigned books, which are equally boring and unhelpful. Binns can't be bothered to take attendance, probably because he doesn't know our names, so the grade really isn't affected."

"Sad, but accurate," Minerva acknowledged. "Continue."

"I've earned OWLs in every course I've undertaken. I'm not technically required to continue studying anything."

McGonagall's eyes once again turned toward Luna, whose face was blank, wondering how Harry had discovered this, for there was no way Albus would have ever imparted that bit of wisdom. She was sure it came from either the Lovegood girl or those infernal Weasley twins. Whatever the case, it didn't alter the fact that the boy was correct.

Well, wouldn't this put a bee in Dumbledore's ridiculous hat?

"You've done your homework, Mister Potter – for once – but I'm afraid that I require further explanation."

Harry exhaled. "Professor McGonagall, I absolutely refuse to endure Snape any longer. I don't know how I managed to score an O in Potions, but I did well enough that I no longer have to suffer that course or his irrational abuse."

Minerva stifled her own sigh, instinctively wanting to chastise him for his phrasing but knowing that doing so would be tantamount to abetting Severus' behavior – which was indeed abusive and had gone too long unchecked by Dumbledore – and she would not have Harry think her to be as lax as the Headmaster.

"Mister Potter," she said slowly, debating whether she should endeavor to persuade him to continue with the course while abandoning its professor, "you should know that Professor Snape will no longer be teaching Potions."

"Oh? Then who will?"

"The Headmaster."

"I stand by my decision."

She raised a brow. How interesting. Severus might treat Harry poorly, but he seemed to know the young man well enough to predict that he would eventually, if not turn against Albus, come to resent him.

"Very well, but surely you wish to continue with Defense? It is your best subject. And thanks to you, your year has earned more OWLs in that class than any year previous."

His cheeks pinked, but McGonagall sensed it was not from embarrassment, but from his immediate dismissal of the credit, which was certainly quite annoying; she was not one to lavish praise, and to have it snubbed was grating.

"I have already earned my NEWT," he countered.

"Which is not to say you've learned everything you need to know," she sharply replied.

"Professor Snape will be the new Defense professor, won't he?" Luna asked.

Stunned, McGonagall merely nodded.

Harry chuckled darkly. "Well, at least one of us gets what he wants." He shook his head. "Knowing that, there is no way I would ever agree to set foot in his classroom. Why would I give him free license to curse me to his heart's content?"

McGonagall pursed her lips. "Mister Potter, Professor Snape would never attack a student, no matter his personal feelings."

Harry scoffed. "Really? How much do you know about my Occlumency lessons last year, Professor McGonagall?"

"Not much," she admitted, "only that the Headmaster wanted you to learn the art."

He nodded. "Yes, well, since that time I've learned a bit more about the process itself and discovered that teacher and student must have some level of trust and respect between them in order for it to work." He raised a brow. "The obvious correlation is that I have never liked nor respected Snape, and never will. I'm sure the feeling is entirely mutual and I could really care less."

She opened her mouth to argue, but was summarily cut off.

"Spare us both, Professor," Harry said in a curt voice. "I've done some checking. I could have him prosecuted for what he did to me last year, and I haven't yet decided not to do just that."

McGonagall released a slow breath. Oh, she wanted to push him for answers but knew this was not the time. She would learn, however, what that man had done to her little lion. If it was has she suspected, Dumbledore would be the only thing capable of stopping her from extracting a pound of flesh.

He sighed. "Professor, were I not required by law to attend school until I reach majority, I would not be returning to Hogwarts at all."

"Harry!"

The boy's face became mottled. "Professor McGonagall, I love this school. I love my friends, and...and...I..." He looked helplessly at her, his eyes bright.

"Understood," she quietly said, heart in her throat.

If he made her cry, she would beat him with a broom.

He clamped his mouth shut and nodded. "You know how dangerous it is to have me here," he finally said, holding up a hand to silence her protest, surprised when she inclined her head in acknowledgment, "but even more than that, I have come to the conclusion that for too long I have allowed other people to dictate my life."

He squared his shoulders. "It's time I took control. I may have been prophesied to battle Voldemort, but that doesn't mean I have to cede my entire life to that fight." His gaze narrowed. "Nor do I have to allow others to do it for me."

She blinked. "Prophecy?"

His jaw set.

"All of this is about some ludicrous prophecy?" she thundered. She pressed her tongue against the roof of her mouth and shook her head, eyes trained to the ceiling. "Well."

"You didn't know?"

She snorted. "You are not the only one our illustrious Headmaster keeps in the dark with regularity, Mister Potter."

She exhaled through her nose. Prophecy. It explained so much; in particular, Trelawney's appointment, which had never made sense, despite Dumbledore's frequent assertions that the woman was not without talent. Dumbledore had arranged this boy's entire life around a prediction proffered by a woman who was barking mad.

She swallowed heavily, her thoughts racing, all but tasting Harry's rancor on her tongue. She knew him well enough that despite his level timbre, his dark tone suggested he was furious, and she was sure the target of his wrath was Dumbledore. She could appreciate this, as she too was undergoing a similar crisis of faith. None of this information, however, changed the fact that Hogwarts was the safest place for him. His only other option was to return to those horrible relatives of his, and she was not about to let that happen.

She also wondered how he had learned of the particulars of the prophecy, which she now realized must have been Voldemort's target that night in the Department of Mysteries. She was sure it had since been destroyed, but found it hard to believe that Dumbledore would reveal its contents to its subject. It was fairly well known that Harry Potter believed in Divination about as much as the man in the moon, but if Dumbledore had thrown all of his authority behind the words and pontificated as if from on high, playing on Harry's guilt in the process, it was no surprise that the boy had caved.

Bile splashed the back of her throat. Dumbledore could be dealt with at a later time. Right now, her priority was ensuring that Harry remained at Hogwarts for the foreseeable future, preferably from this moment forward. But how to accomplish it?

"Oh, Harry," she sighed, her own eyes becoming impossibly bright as she watched him force back angry, bitter tears. "You are not the only one who has waited too long to make difficult choices. I understand your anger and your resentment, and you are entitled, but child, you are simply too intelligent to waste your education. As you said, you are compelled by law to attend this institution and you are correct that your OWLs excuse you from continuing with classes you no longer wish to study, but I sincerely hope you do not throw away these final two years out of petty spitefulness."

"I don't intend to," he said. "Madam Pomfrey has agreed to allow me to intern with her for the year in the Infirmary." He gave a sardonic smile. "She also insisted that I learn whatever potions she decrees I must so that I can sit my Potions NEWT."

She raised a brow. "Then I do believe congratulations are in order, Mister Potter. It's not just any student whom Madam Pomfrey allows into her domain."

He grinned. "I know."

She smiled as well, pleased that he was able to take some pride in his accomplishments rather than simply viewing them as a means to an end. "So you wish to continue with Transfiguration as well as interning in the Infirmary. Is there anything else?"

He bit his lip. "Well, Luna has suggested that in order to do well in my internship, I should continue with Herbology. And I really like Professor Sprout."

"Good advice," McGonagall declared, thinking that she should later speak to Pomona about this meeting and ask her to keep an eye on Harry in her class; not that she would need to ask, of course. Pomona's outburst this morning in the Headmaster's office had been both surprising and illuminating. "That's three."

He nodded. "I would also like to begin Arithmancy and Ancient Runes."

This time, she raised both eyebrows. "But Mister Potter, you have no experience in those courses. Do you understand that you would be in class with Third Years?"

"I do, and I don't care. It's time I took advantage of every resource this school has to offer. If that means I have to learn along with a pack of thirteen-year-olds, so be it."

She considered him for a moment. "You consistently surprise me, Mister Potter," she finally said, "and it's extremely rare for me to be surprised. However, where you are concerned, I find I'm rather fond of the experience; when we're not in mortal danger, of course." She nodded. "Very well. If you wish, I will speak to the professors about instructing you privately."

He shook his head. "Thank you, but no. There's a line between taking advantage and being demanding, and I don't wish to cross it. Luna has offered to tutor me when I need it. She's the top student in her year."

"She is?" McGonagall turned to the girl. "You are?"

Luna dropped her mask, her eyes focused and her mouth grim. "I am a Ravenclaw, Professor."

McGonagall blinked owlishly. "So you are. It would appear Mister Potter has rather surprising friends, as well."

Luna turned to her friend. "Harry, why don't you consider taking Runes and Arithmancy as independent studies? That way, you could determine your own pace and schedule in conjunction with Professors Babbling and Vector, and you wouldn't be forced to sit alongside thirteen-year-olds who would probably take much more time assimilating the information than you."

She then returned to considering oxygen molecules and what they were whispering to her about the evils of nitrogen.

Mean nitrogen.

Harry smirked at McGonagall's befuddled stare. He had a feeling the professor wouldn't again underestimate Luna Lovegood.

McGonagall looked again to Harry. "I don't foresee Miss Lovegood's suggestion being a problem. Mister Potter, there is also a new required course being instituted this year: Muggle Literature and Dramatics. All Fifth and Sixth years must take the class."

He narrowed his eyes. "What is this really about?"

"You will find out soon enough, I expect," she replied, rolling her eyes.

"Oh, good grief," he sighed, running a hand over his face.

"Quite. Nevertheless, it has already been written into the curriculum as required, and thus you have no choice but to take it. It is not demanded of Seventh Years, however, so you must only endure for these next two terms. It will not be terribly inconvenient, I believe. Mostly reading and a few essays. All of the materials will be provided by the school."

"Who is teaching this course?" Luna interjected.

"Frankly, I do not know. The Headmaster is making the arrangements." She looked to Harry. "He will most likely be speaking about them with you."

"Fun."

"Indeed. Now, that is six courses. I shall register you immediately and generate a booklist."

"Excuse me, Professor," he interrupted, "but there's one more I'd like to request."

"Mister Potter, seven courses is really exceeding the recommended guidelines, and you well know the trouble Miss Granger experienced when she pushed herself too far."

"It's not technically a course," he said. "I'd like to have a dedicated period of library time, preferably when it is rather unoccupied and in which Madam Pince is informed not to disturb me, as well as a year's pass to the Restricted Section."

McGonagall slowly removed her glasses and looked down her nose at him. "Excuse me?"

"Professor," he said, knowing he would have to sell this quickly and was not beneath self-deprecation and arousing pity, "I have to learn things in my own time and in my own way. I did well on my OWLs, yes," he flashed a quick grin at McGonagall's snort, "but it took me five years to be able to order in my mind what I had learned. I'm not like Hermione or Zabini. It takes me quite a long time for me to build onto my knowledge."

She frowned. "How so?"

He fidgeted. "Well, take Hermione, for example; or Blaise, for that matter. They only need to read or be taught something once to understand it. Hermione can recall information whenever she needs and she's then able to integrate that knowledge with everything that preceded it. Ron, on the other hand, does best only in certain subjects, but those in which he _does_ do well, it's like he has an instinctive grasp of the whole and immediately fills any gaps with new information."

She gave a curt nod. It was easy to see why his Defense students had succeeded. He was an excellent teacher who understood his students. "Your observations are correct."

"I'm not like that," he continued, shrugging. "I don't really know how I learn. Harder spells come easy to me, yeah, but other things which almost everyone knows fall out of my mind as if my brain is leaking. I just can't keep them inside, and I can't seem to correlate them with each other. I'm constantly having to relearn things which I already learned but have forgotten. I can conjure a Patronus, but still can't do a decent _Scourgify_."

She frowned again, more deeply, and considered his explanation which was lacking in several respects and rather poorly phrased, though she nevertheless got the gist.

"I understand what you are saying, Mister Potter. Perhaps what you don't know is that the level of power of a witch or wizard duly influences how they absorb information. You are highly powerful, so it is unsurprising that harder material is easier for you to grasp. Your magic responds to more difficult challenges."

She then decided to probe more deeply into his background at least as far as magic was concerned, because she was sure that despite Albus's silence on the matter, the boy had displayed excellence from the beginning.

"Tell me, Harry, did you ever perform any magic before you came to Hogwarts?" His guilty flush spoke for itself. "Ah, I thought as much. Please tell me about these incidents."

"There are too many. I don't remember them all," he admitted, eyes down, "just being punished for them."

He flushed more deeply at his unintended admission, although after his letters and his conversations with Luna, he was finding it easier to qualify the Dursleys' treatment of him. Still, it was embarrassing.

McGonagall's face became stone and she nodded for him to continue. As he couldn't see the gesture, Luna, who had noticed it, gently stroked his arm.

"I Apparated once," he recalled, his face screwed up in thought, deciding that was as good a place to begin as any.

"Excuse me?" Minerva turned to Luna and was even more disconcerted to see she too was startled. "You Apparated? Without training? When?"

"I think I was eight. You see, I was..."

She tuned out his explanation, however, preferring her stupor as her mind desperately processed his words.

The boy had Apparated at _eight years old_.

There were several things about this which shocked her, the primary one being there had been no report from the department which regulated underage magic; at least none with which she was familiar. Such a feat would not have been able to be contained, even by Dumbledore. So why hadn't the Ministry been alerted to an eight-year-old Apparating about England?

_Dear Merlin_, she thought, _his power must be astonishing. But then why were his scores only mediocre to middling in the previous five years?_

She determined that there was more going on there than just how Harry perceived his ability to learn. She resolved to look into it later and would not be informing Albus that she intended to do so, or of her findings. Hopefully she had temporarily disabled the charms he had placed about her office. She was still outraged that he had been so presumptuous, but that was a conversation for a later time, one she would make sure Dumbledore would not likely soon forget.

She struggled to tune back into the conversation.

"And really, Professor, I'm speaking only of learning theory, not practical. I won't be casting any spells, I promise. I just...I just have to do _something_. I can't stand being reactionary to things anymore. I can't settle for being told only what people think I need to know!"

He paused, trying to get his temper under control as he thought of Dumbledore and the man's irritating prevarications.

"The bottom line is this: when it is time for me to face Voldemort, I will be standing alone. I need to be ready."

She eyed him briefly before looking away. If he thought he would be standing alone, he was very much mistaken. The death of innocence had never been so poignant and her anger at Dumbledore had segued from fiery outrage to frigid wrath, which helped to order her thoughts.

"I understand. All right, Mister Potter, I will write you the pass, but with the following conditions."

She ignored his mixture of relief and annoyance.

"First, I will create it so that I am aware of every book you pull from a shelf and every spell you read. Second, at the end of each week, you will write me a summary of what you have learned, as well as theoretical scenarios in which such spells could be employed; thus you will earn credit for independent study for all the work you will be doing. Third, the pass will be charmed so that you cannot reveal to anyone that which you have learned without my express permission, and don't think it will be easily obtained."

Her mind roared with glee. Even Dumbledore would not be able to violate the charm she would place on that pass.

Harry released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and slowly nodded. Nothing for which McGonagall was asking was unreasonable and it was nothing he wasn't prepared to relinquish; he had anticipated far greater difficulty.

Minerva had expected his surrender, so she went in for the kill. "Finally, you will agree to private lessons with me in the Room of Requirement - yes, I know all about that room - where you can practice what you have learned without fear of reprisal or of harming anyone. Further, should I deem it necessary, I will invite at my discretion any faculty member or other witch or wizard whom I believe could assist in your development, even if such people are those with whom you would prefer not to interact."

He glared at her and then turned to Luna, who nodded. "Don't say no out of fear of Snape or anyone else. The Professor is not going to tolerate nonsense from anyone. You have to trust somebody, Harry, and I think it should be her."

"I advise you to listen to Miss Lovegood," McGonagall added, stunned by her own words, "and I promise that I will not take advantage of that trust."

"_You_ never would," Harry whispered, his tone unintentionally scathing. He cleared his throat and nodded. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Will there be anything else?"

"Yes. I'm resigning from the Quidditch team."

Her eyes became the size of saucers. "Oh, Harry! Please don't do this! Aside from the rather perverse pleasure I get out of snatching the cup out from under Slytherin every year, your resignation would be catastrophic for the team morale."

"Then they're not a very good team if they place all of their hopes on a single player," Luna demurred.

Both Harry and McGonagall blinked and turned to stare at Luna, who appeared rather bored. Silence reigned for several moments.

"Yes," the Professor finally sighed. "Well...yes. An excellent, though rather tragic, point, Miss Lovegood."

"I just don't have the time, Professor," Harry continued. "I have other priorities now. You of all people know how much Quidditch means to me. These past years, it's often been my only solace. But if I'm going to demand to be treated as an adult, then I have to start acting like one, which means that I must sometimes make choices which don't necessarily benefit me."

She sighed again. "I wish I could change your mind, but I understand. However, I insist upon informing the team myself and I shall take responsibility for your absence."

"You can't do that!"

"I can and I will," she said sternly. "This is nonnegotiable, Mister Potter. You know how seriously Quidditch is taken at this school. Do you have any idea what would happen were it to get out that you voluntarily quit? You remember what it was like for you during fourth year; your own House, with the exception of Miss Granger, all but abandoned you!"

She shook her head. "_Never_ have I been so ashamed and disheartened as I was by that behavior. I simply refuse to allow it to happen once more. As you said, you have enough to consider without your own House turning on you yet again."

"But what will you tell them?"

McGonagall waved her hand. "I will make up some excuse as to why you are no longer on the team, and I dare one person of any House to aim one untoward remark my way." She pursed her lips and became thoughtful. "It's perhaps easiest to claim that Umbridge's ban still holds and that you are simply no longer allowed to play. For all I know, it might even be true."

"Ginny," he blurted. "She has the potential be an excellent Seeker and she already has some experience under her belt, thanks to Umbridge. If you speak with her soon, I can begin to train her next month for tryouts while I'm at the Burrow."

McGonagall wondered why the boy simply couldn't contact the Weasley girl himself, but refrained from asking. That Harry was willing to forfeit some of his summer holidays to train a possible replacement was gratifying, so she had no qualms about acceding to his request.

Harry frowned. "Although Colin Creevey has the build and would probably do well, too. I'm just not sure he could handle the pressure." He gnawed on his lip. "Who will be the team captain?"

"Miss Bell," she answered, rather relieved when he appeared pleased at the news.

Dear Merlin! Was she really so dependent on the boy's approval?

Well, when it came to Quidditch, perhaps she was.

"Katie's an excellent choice, and while Angelina was competent, I imagine Katie will be more like Oliver and keep the team in a firm grasp."

McGonagall's shock was obvious.

Harry's answering smile was rather cheeky. "I gather you thought I would advocate for Ron. He's a brilliant tactician and he knows a lot about Quidditch, of course, but he has a tendency to become obsessive and he would most likely alienate the entire team before the first game."

He shrugged. "He also hasn't been on the team long enough to justify the appointment. The others would rebel, and with good reason. And, frankly, even though Ron is my best mate, I don't think he could balance the captainship in addition to his Prefect duties."

McGonagall openly studied him. "You've been rather underestimated, haven't you, Mister Potter? By all of us."

Luna nodded. "Yes. He has."

Harry, however, was lost in a Quidditch haze. "Ginny, I think. For Seeker. Colin would cave were he pitted against Malfoy or Cho. Ginny wouldn't care. She has the concentration and is used to Malfoy's insults."

"Agreed," Minerva said.

She would owl Miss Weasley later in the day. She suppressed her sigh as her rage for Dolores Umbridge once again sparked. Stupid cow.

"I am very pleased that even though you are relinquishing something in which you find pleasure, you are still able to see the big picture and plan accordingly for others. Let me handle this, Mister Potter. It's one thing to be an adult; it's quite another to be a martyr. I think you've sacrificed enough, don't you?"

"It's okay if you want to cry," Luna told him, patting his cheek.

He laughed instead, understanding that was her sole intention. He reached up and grabbed her hand, entwining their fingers, at which McGonagall raised an eyebrow. Harry caught the look and blushed before he began fidgeting.

"Er, Professor. Luna and I aren't together, if that's what you're thinking."

"Harry..." Luna warned.

"You said I have to trust someone."

"There is a limit."

"What is going on here?" McGonagall demanded.

Harry sighed. "I sometimes like boys."

She pressed a hand to her chest. "Is that all? Oh, thank Merlin!" she exclaimed. "I thought you were going to tell me you had gotten some witch up the duff!"

She shook her head to dispel her queasiness before noting with amusement the Lovegood girl's smirk and the boy's baffled expression.

"Potter, honestly, do you think you're the first? Please. You're not the first in your House, in your year, nor the first in your House in your year!"

She suppressed a grin as she watched him try to process who the other or others might be. She supposed she shouldn't have been so forthcoming, but truly, Mister Finnegan was more than a bit obvious about his tastes; if it had a pulse, he was interested. She wasn't even sure that a pulse was requisite.

She cleared her throat. "I admit I'm somewhat taken aback, simply because I witnessed your fondness for that Chang girl, but it's certainly not earth-shattering."

McGonagall thought about her words and, once they registered, she struggled to keep her face stoic. It had never been about Chang, she realized, but Diggory.

_Oh, Harry._

She decided to press her luck and fish for information, narrowing her eyes. "However, if I find out that you and Mister Weasley are using your dorm room to..."

"I don't like Ron!" Harry spluttered. "Not like that, I mean," he choked, his face scarlet.

She studied him for a moment, feeling vaguely guilty at her delight in making him squirm. "Very well. As long as you observe the rules for any dating couple while at this institution, there should be no problem. Why were you so concerned with telling me?"

"It's a problem for Muggles," Luna explained. "There are laws and such throughout the world. Beatings, blatant discrimination and the like are commonplace. While recognized as equals in England, homosexuals are usually not permitted to marry nor raise children in most other countries. They can even be jailed or executed for having relations."

McGonagall looked incredulous and colored slightly at the word _relations_. "How utterly barbaric!"

She turned to Harry. "Potter! Some advice: who you love is simply who you love, and that's the end of it. Now, if this is something you wish you to keep to yourself, then I will hold your confidence. Who you wish to tell is certainly your own business."

She glared at him. "However, if someone learns of this and attempts any sort of extortion, you will inform me immediately. If you choose to announce it to the world at large and you suffer any harassment for it from those in this school, you will inform me of that immediately. I will not tolerate foolishness. Not yours and not that of anyone. Is that understood?"

"Yes ma'am!" He had paled considerably.

She nodded. "Good."

"Harry does still like girls, you know," Luna confided. "It's nice that he's not exclusionary."

"Well, congratulations on your versatility, Mister Potter," Minerva drawled, pleased when she saw him flush once again. This was far too easy and rather enjoyable. She quickly filled out a registration form and spelled the ink dry to seal the charm.

"Now, I will keep a copy of this for my own records and one will be sent to you via owl along with your new schedule. You are to give this copy to the Headmaster before you and Miss Lovegood leave the school. If he has any questions, you tell him he is to come to me to discuss them. If that is all, I wish you good day."

Hopefully, Dumbledore would distract Harry long enough for her to conspire with Poppy to keep the boy on the grounds for the remainder of the summer.

"There's one more thing, Professor."

"Yes, Miss Lovegood?"

Luna turned to Harry. "Show her."

He blinked as he puzzled over what she meant. When he realized, he shivered and blanched. "No!"

"Show her!"

"Luna, I said no!"

The girl rolled her eyes and waved her wand. Immediately, Harry was thrown to his feet and began marching toward McGonagall.

"Miss Lovegood!"

With another wave of her wand, Luna canceled the concealing glamour on Harry's wrist. Another wave and his arm was held out in front of McGonagall's face. Both the McGonagall and Harry were so startled, neither stopped to notice that Luna had cast her spells silently.

"What do you see?" Luna demanded.

Minerva, taken aback by her tone, peered closely. "I must not tell lies."

The girl nodded. "Umbridge. Detention. Blood Quill."

At once McGonagall stood, her scowl furious and eyes enraged. She crossed to her fireplace and threw a handful of dust into its mouth.

"Severus!"

Momentarily, Snape's head appeared in the grate. "Minerva," he greeted. Then he spied Harry and Luna and sneered. "Everyone."

Harry rolled his eyes while Luna stared.

"Severus! Gather Pomona, Filius, and Poppy and meet me in Dumbledore's office at once!"

"Professor..." Harry said weakly.

"Shut it, Potter!" she barked. "How you could not have come to me with this immediately does your supposed intelligence a great disservice!"

Severus cocked a brow as he watched Potter's face fall; to be chastised by a professor whom the boy obviously respected appeared to be a harsh blow for him. Interesting.

"I'll see you there shortly," he addressed McGonagall, before disappearing from the flames.

Minerva turned to the students. "Both of you! Come with me!"

* * *

Alastor Moody rambled about his small home, still cursing the fact that some random house elf had managed to breach his wards last night to deliver a letter. While Potter's epistle was disquieting, he was more upset about that blasted elf. He should have taken into account the fact that most wizarding wards provided no defense against other magical creatures. What was to halt an elf owned by some accursed Death Eater from penetrating his defenses for nefarious purposes?

"Constant vigilance!"

Right. Well then, perhaps the elf's appearance should be viewed in a more favorable light. He must look into ways of denying anyone, human or not, entrance to his sanctuary. Pleased, he turned his attention to other matters.

Potter's letter was surprising and disturbing. He was frankly astonished that the boy had contacted him in secret and was rather pleased that he had not done so by using his very recognizable owl. That he had instead employed a free house elf to deliver his missive was inspired and implied to Moody that the boy was not incapable of rational thought. It was the contents of the letter which were so injurious.

Dumbledore.

Potter had laid out his suspicions and asked pertinent questions to which Moody believed the boy already should have had answers. What the hell was Dumbledore playing at, keeping the boy so misinformed? To what possible end could the old wizard have believed such action to be wise?

At first, Moody had almost dismissed the boy's concerns out of hand as if they were nothing more than a teenager's petulance, but the fact that Potter had sought him out when they had almost no relationship - and especially after the farce with Crouch - suggested the boy had reason to be wary.

Moody had laughed out loud when Potter had asked if he was simply being paranoid. Paranoia was a wonderful gift! Especially for a boy under such scrutiny.

Also impressive was that Potter had bypassed those Moody was sure Dumbledore would have expected the boy to approach. Molly Weasley was a smart choice, and he was sure Potter was capitalizing on her affection for him. Excellent strategy. The woman was formidable and not even Albus Dumbledore intimidated her when a child was at risk.

Amelia Bones was also a clever idea, though it was obvious from the letter Potter had no idea she was the new Minister, still believing her to be the head of the DMLE. That should prove entertaining, though it rather stuck in Moody's craw. What was Dumbledore doing, keeping the boy so isolated from the wizarding world? It made absolutely no sense.

Oh, he was sure it made sense to _Dumbledore_, but that meant little to Moody, who often thought Dumbledore believed all of this to be some exquisite game, a tidy little whatsit of Good versus Evil.

Well, that was quite charming in theory, but impractical. Moody was sure that Albus sat in his office on his throne with his pet Death Eater at his side and silently laughed as he yanked on people's strings. Not that he believed the old buzzard was malicious per se, just idiotically myopic.

Dumbledore had maneuvered all of this so that Potter would be forced to confront Voldemort.

Why? Because some prophecy suggested it must be so?

Moody snorted. Prophecy, indeed. He couldn't believe someone as allegedly intelligent as Dumbledore put so much stock in Divination. It was asinine. If Dumbledore was so intent on using Potter as weapon, why hadn't he had the boy trained? It was obvious to anyone with any whit of sense who spent even five minutes in the company of Harry Potter that the boy had enough power to topple the wizarding world if he so wanted.

And that's when Moody understood. He smirked.

Dumbledore _feared_ Potter.

Dumbledore feared what the boy would do were he not kept in check, and that was wise. For the past two decades, he had heard that Aurors were now trained to overcome their fears, but that was fallacy. Fear was necessary; if employed correctly, it forced one to rely on logic in making split-second decisions rather than emotion. One should struggle to recognize fear for what it was, a warning, and not to discount it.

Still, Dumbledore was being ludicrous. If Potter was truly interested in becoming the next Dark Lord, he would have taken steps already. He would have declared his allegiance to Voldemort and thrown in his lot. Moody was quite sure Voldemort had already extended the offer and wondered what enticements had been held up as carrots.

Were Potter to align himself, there was no limit to what Voldemort would be willing to concede, even his own followers. If Potter was evil, he would have taken the Dark Mark and called for the executions of Bellatrix Lestrange, Lucius Malfoy, quite possibly Snape, and a host of others. In fact, he was betting Voldemort would make another offer quite soon, especially after that debacle in the Ministry. The death of Sirius Black had all but shattered Potter, and he would rightfully want vengeance against Lestrange, as well as against Dolohov for attacking Granger.

Well, so be it. Moody believed that if Potter had turned down Voldemort once before, he would again. Dumbledore's mistake was consistently underestimating who Potter was as a _person_, too focused on Potter the wizard. The boy had already gone to great lengths to demonstrate that even if he cared little for himself, he would fight and die for his friends, Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger in particular. Moody assumed that protection had now been extended to Ginevra Weasley, Neville Longbottom, and Luna Lovegood.

Ah, there was a proper witch.

Moody remembered too well the girl's mother and Luna was an excellent blending of her parents. She had her father's paranoia and belief in all things possible, and her mother's intelligence and ferocity. That she had so firmly declared herself in Potter's camp was both interesting and enlightening, and he was quite sure Dumbledore hadn't seen it coming, though he was most likely preparing for a way to press this new advantage.

However, Moody didn't believe the Lovegood girl was under any illusions as to the character of her Headmaster. She had purposefully cultivated a reputation as a misfit so that she might better keep a watchful eye on her surroundings and the people who moved within them, all the while subtly encouraging them to discount her with their every glance.

Clever, clever girl.

And when Harry had listed in his letter the others to whom he planned to reach out, Moody was sold. He couldn't wait to see what the boy would do next, and what Albus would do when he realized a mere child had placed him firmly in check.

Alastor Moody cackled.

Things just became interesting.

* * *

Neville Longbottom had abandoned his manor house proper and sought refuge in the conservatory, trying to discern what had laid behind his grandmother's tenacious interrogation an hour previous.

She had first demanded to be told everything he knew about Harry Potter and he had started to become annoyed, fearing that she would try to separate him from Harry and, by association, Ron, Hermione, Luna, and Ginny. That would never happen, of course, his grandmother's approval notwithstanding. After everything that had happened the year previous, which had culminated in their mission at the Department of Mysteries, Neville was not about to let anyone nor anything interfere in his relationships with his friends.

She had surprised him, however, by quickly segueing from Harry to Dumbledore. He had no idea what she was on about; the most he was able to determine was that she had problems with the man. She had all but commanded him to avoid the Headmaster unless absolutely necessary and told him he was never to speak with Dumbledore alone. If the man ever demanded such an audience, Neville was to notify her at once. That was odd.

But not really.

Neville had to admit that he had felt rather abandoned when Dumbledore had all but disappeared from Hogwarts last term, taking off for parts unknown to do Merlin knew what, and relinquishing control to Umbridge. True that he had not much choice, but surely he could have stuck around and fought the Ministry. Had the students' parents ever learned of what that woman had been doing, they would have rallied behind Dumbledore to have Umbridge tossed into Azkaban.

He snorted. "Good place for her, the stupid cow."

He looked around guiltily, fretting he might have been overheard.

He picked up the nearest trowel and began repotting some mandrake saplings. After the events in second year, he had determined it would be good to have some on hand. After all, who knew if Voldemort had more basilisks waiting in the wings? He knew it wasn't much, but beyond his Herbology talent, he didn't have much to offer other than as a foot soldier. He wasn't the most skilled in combat or the most talented at spellcasting, but he was loyal, a trait which he knew Harry valued above all others.

He had to admit that it was rather nice being friends with Harry. When he had first met the boy, he had been both thrilled and terrified, but the more he had gotten to know him, the more Neville had realized that Harry was _nice_. He wasn't conceited or arrogant as others had often accused him of being, and he was a good friend. Neville trusted Harry with his life, which was no small feat.

It had taken a lot for him to stand up to the Golden Trio in first year, when they had stormed off after the Stone, but they had appreciated the fact that he had been worried about their safety. They, Harry in particular, always stood up for him, whether it be against Malfoy or Snape, or even against other members of their own House. Harry had told him that the Hat had put him in Gryffindor for a reason and that Neville belonged there just as much as anyone else.

Neville still wasn't sure about that. He often thought the Hat had made a colossal blunder in its Sorting, but there was little he could do about it now. He had always believed he would be Sorted into Hufflepuff and that had been fine with him; there were certainly worse things than being regarded as loyal and industrious. His grandmother had been pleased he had put into Gryffindor, of course, as if it was some sort of validation; both of his parents, after all, had been Gryffindors.

He sighed. He supposed he should make arrangements to visit them before he was due to go back to Hogwarts. He used to think it would get easier over time, but it had only gotten worse. He guessed that a child never outgrew their need for their parents.

* * *

Andromeda Tonks was bustling around her kitchen, preparing to begin supper.

While she didn't miss most things about the wizarding world, she often longed for a house elf. Not that she really needed one, of course, with just she and her husband rambling about their townhouse. It was still hard to believe that Nymphadora had moved out almost five years ago. The house just seemed so empty without her and the constant - and loud - accidents.

She gave a small smile and sent up a silent prayer to whomever might be listening to keep an eye on her daughter. Though she knew Nymphadora was a brilliant Auror, Andromeda still followed the progress of the wizarding world, and Voldemort had been too quiet for too long.

She was startled from her thoughts by a quick and insistent rapping on her front door. Wiping her hands on her apron and blowing a lock of hair from her face, she rambled toward the sound of the intrusion and threw back the door.

"Do you open your door to just anyone?"

"Apparently," Andromeda snapped. "What in Tartarus do you want, Narcissa?"

* * *

Bill Weasley stormed into his apartment in Diagon Alley and slammed the door behind him. The goblins had insisted that he take the rest of the day off; in his present state, he was of no use to them or anyone else. He had been faintly surprised that they were as outraged as he, but perhaps it was to be expected under the circumstances.

"That...that bastard!" he snarled.

"William!" Fleur scolded, bustling out of the kitchen. "About whom are you speaking? And why are you home at this hour?" she demanded. Her eyes widened and her frown died as her lips parted in concern. "I have never seen you this upset," she fretted, turning back into the kitchen and fetching him a glass of water.

He followed, sat down at their small café table, and put his head in his hands.

"I'm not supposed to say anything," he ground out. "Gringotts laws of confidentiality and all that, but more importantly, I can't break Harry's trust."

"Harry?" she repeated. "This is about Harry? Has something happened to him?" she trilled.

Bill raised his head and stared at her, blinking. "Are you all right, love? I knew you liked Harry, but I didn't know you were quite so fond of him."

"He saved my sister's life!" she exclaimed, with a tone which indicated she thought him stupid for not remembering as much. "I thought for sure Gabrielle would perish in that lake, but out of nowhere, Harry broke the surface of the water with both she _and_ your brother! My entire family, as well as yours, owes him a life debt!"

He was confused. "But it was all part of the Tournament, wasn't it? Nothing truly bad would have happened to Gabrielle if Harry hadn't pulled her out of the water."

She gave him an incredulous look. "Well, we certainly didn't know that, did we?" she testily retorted. "And neither did anyone else. My parents weren't even asked about Gabrielle's participation! She was all but kidnapped from the Beauxbatons carriage. None of the hostages were even consulted, only becoming aware of events once they broke the surface of the lake.

His eyes widened and she nodded.

"In those moments, they believed their lives had been saved by the contestants. Life debts were formed. I do believe Hermione had figured out she would be taken, so it's possible she owes no debt to Viktor. I know nothing about that Chang girl, but it hardly matters now, does it?" she asked, eyes wetting at the thought of Cedric.

"But Gabrielle and Ronald both owe life debts to Harry, and I owe him one I can never repay. You have no idea what is was like for me, being underwater, utterly and completely terrified that my incompetence would kill my sister; of the shame and guilt I felt leaving her behind so that I wouldn't drown myself; waiting on the dock, shivering almost to the point of convulsions, wondering how I would tell my parents that their youngest child was dead."

She paused and gave a dreamy sigh. "And then he emerged, with Gabrielle in his arms."

Bill managed not to roll his eyes and said nothing as he quietly watched her blink back tears. He had never truly realized just how horrible that accursed Tournament had been for all of the Champions, and now he sat and pondered her words.

No, he couldn't imagine what it must have been like for her. Charlie, not knowing the rules of the Tournament, had been furious once he realized it was Ron whom Harry was to rescue as almost everyone was convinced it was Hermione, who had also been missing; in fact, Charlie had found the whole Task utterly perverse.

Bill frowned as he began remembering that Charlie had been just as concerned for Harry as he was for Ron and Hermione; more so in fact. Interesting. Especially since Charlie really didn't know Harry; he still didn't. He supposed it didn't matter anyway. Harry simply inspired devotion just by being himself. That he thought himself rather unremarkable was simply more reason to care for him.

He forced himself to focus. Harry had not only rescued Ron, but Gabrielle as well, completely disregarding his own life; all he had known was to save as many people as he could. Bill had no doubt that had Krum not successfully freed Hermione, Harry would have found a way to rescue her, as well, or die trying.

He then thought about Ginny and how Harry had saved her from the Chamber in her first year, not even really knowing her, but desperate to save the sister of his best mate. Fleur was right. The Weasley clan owed Harry Potter a life debt, and possibly more than one.

There was still a lot Bill didn't know about the Chamber escapade. Ginny had been unconscious for most of it and couldn't recall anything, and Harry had been frustratingly tight-lipped. He was doubtful that even Ron and Hermione had all of the details. All of these things served merely to reinforce his anger at what had been done to Harry Potter, and if his fiancée was of the same mind, then Harry had a new ally, and a powerful one at that.

"Dumbledore," he seethed.

Fleur's eyes widened in partial understanding. "Foolish old man! Making Harry compete in the Tournament! _Fourteen_ years old! Kidnapping children!" she raged. "Cedric!" She at once became wistful and gave a gentle sigh. "Cedric liked Harry, you know."

"Almost everyone likes Harry," replied a distracted Bill. He then thought of Snape and Fudge. "Well, save for the wretchedly cruel and stunningly stupid."

She gave him a withering glare. "No, William. Cedric _liked_ Harry."

His eyes became the size of saucers. "Oh," he whispered. "Did...did Harry like Cedric as well?"

Poor Harry's life seemed destined to become a Greek tragedy of epic proportions.

"I do not know," Fleur admitted. "Harry is one of the few people I cannot read. He has no reaction to my Veela magic."

"None at all?" he sputtered. "I thought he was just being polite out of respect for us."

"Well, Harry is very respectful, of course," she conceded. "He never treated me as anything more than another Champion. He was cordial, always, though I regret to say I was not," she confessed, her cheeks slightly pinking. "I think he was rather embarrassed by Ronald's reaction to me." She paused and cocked a brow. "In fact, I'm not sure for which of us he was more embarrassed," she mused, a slight smile on her face.

"Perhaps Harry prefers boys," Bill shrugged. Given the day's more shocking revelations, he was surprised to recall so strongly Harry's apparent crush on Charlie, but it came readily enough.

She waved a dismissive hand. "Harry likes a bit of both, I think, but that is of no consequence; beauty is beauty. Most people do not understand the way of the Veela. We don't compel people to become nymphomaniacs or anything so ridiculous. We simply exude an aura of comeliness to which people respond. Unfortunately, sometimes that reaction is more visceral than we would like. Even among those who prefer people of the same gender, a reaction is almost guaranteed. Not from Harry, though."

"He does seem very...controlled."

"Abnormally so, I think."

"How do you mean?" he asked, understanding exactly what she meant, but wanting her to explain her reasoning. Fleur was disarmingly insightful; he wished his family would give her a chance.

"Well, don't you think that anyone who had been through half of what Harry has endured would have been rendered a lunatic? And I think more has happened to him than anyone even knows."

Bill snorted. "More than you can imagine."

Her eyes narrowed and he realized that she was abandoning pretense and taking a page straight from the book of her future mother-in-law.

"What are you talking about? What do you know? Has it something to do with why you're home so early?"

"Harry came to see me today."

"They let him out of his prison?" she asked snidely.

He sneered in concert. "Too right. I think Harry's finally learned that if he stops begging for the simple things and instead demands them, he'll find little to no opposition. He wanted to meet that Lovegood girl and he needed to go to Gringotts."

Fleur's brow furrowed. "Luna? I did not realize they were so close."

"You know Luna?" he asked, confused.

"Well of course I do!" she laughed. "She's my cousin, after all!"

"She is?"

"Have you even looked over the guest list?" she demanded, mock annoyance clouding her face. "Yes, she's my cousin. Several times removed, but she is family through her mother's side. That's why I always sat at the Ravenclaw table while at Hogwarts."

Bill was flabbergasted. "I can't believe I never realized. My family has known the Lovegoods forever. They live right down the meadow, you know."

She grinned. "Yes, I do."

He rolled his eyes. "Whatever." He then frowned. "Is Luna part Veela? Perhaps that explains Harry's interest in her."

Enraged, Fleur rose to her feet. "Oh, so he couldn't like her just for her, is that it?"

Bill's eyes widened; too often he forgot about the Veela temper. "That's not what I meant at all!" he sputtered, though it was.

"Yes, it was!" she challenged. She huffed and sat back down. "She probably has some Veela blood in her, but only a trace amount, and if Harry has no reaction to me, he certainly would have none to her, at least in that way." She shrugged. "Luna has other gifts."

He raised an eyebrow. "Is that right?"

"So what did Harry need at Gringotts?"

He averted his eyes, knowing better than to press her on something she wished left alone. "Well," he began slowly, "he initially came in to make a small withdrawal from his vault, but once he arrived..."

He then launched into that morning's misadventures, watching as her expression flitted from surprise to horror to outrage and, finally, to righteous indignation.

"That's illegal!" she screamed, once he was finished. "And immoral! And...and..." she panted, trying to catch her breath and rid herself of the bile building up inside her throat.

He nodded, the gesture one of both sadness and anger.

"What is Harry going to do now?" she hissed.

He smirked. "He has a plan, you see..."

She gave a feral grin and eagerly leaned forward.

Bill Weasley was once again reminded why he was the luckiest man in the world.


	5. Best Laid Plans

Xander awoke to a presence beside him which was quite obviously not that of his girlfriend.

Cracking open an eye, he looked to his left and saw Tara's golden locks swirling about a pillow, obscuring her face. Slightly hysterical, he quickly lifted the sheet which covered them and heaved a sigh of relief that they were both clothed.

He didn't _remember_ getting drunk and having hot but adulterous sex with his best friend's girlfriend.

"I didn't compromise your virtue," she snorted, wide blue eyes now peeking out at him from behind her curtain of hair.

He felt a blush creep up his neck. "I don't know how you stopped yourself," he retorted, "but congratulations. It's not every day a woman wakes up to Xander Harris in her bed."

"Unless she's a demon."

"Ouch. Not that you're wrong, but ouch all the same. And, hey! _Ex_-demon!"

She grinned. "I need tea."

She sat up and squeaked when a cup was thrust at her.

Xander snickered. "I think Dennis has taken a shine to you."

"Well," she drawled, "I can certainly understand why Cordelia adores him. Truly, all the decent men are dead."

"Hey!"

She patted his cheek. "I'm sorry," she murmured contritely.

He huffed and crossed his arms over his chest.

"I forgot about Giles."

"Hey!"

"You should call Buffy."

"Oh, sure. _That's_ a conversation I'm desperate to have."

She clucked. "Well, she's probably pissed off you didn't do so last night, and having Angel call her?" She shook her head. "Not the smartest decision."

"You thought it was okay last night. Even funny." His brow furrowed. "What's changed?"

She sipped her tea and hummed with appreciation before blinking. "Huh? Oh. Well, Angel likely let it slip that you disappeared for a time. She's sure to have put it together by now. Where else would you have gone? Who else in L.A. do you know?"

"Well, shit."

"Exactly. Ten to one she already tried interrogating Anya."

"Now that's a conversation I _am_ desperate to see."

She smirked. "Ditto." She snaked up the bed and rested against the headboard. "Okay, you call our fearless leader and I'll use my cell to the call the hospital and check on Cordy."

He grumbled.

She rolled her eyes. "Relax. What can she do to you over the phone?" He gave her a Look and she conceded the point with a nod. "Best to get it over with, then."

He sighed and rolled out of bed, flushing when he realized he was in his boxers.

He had been in his _boxers_ with the _girlfriend_ of his _best friend_. They had shared the _bed_ of his _ex-girlfriend_.

Tara sat up and looked down, giving a wolf whistle. "Nice legs!"

"You're entirely too saucy this morning, young lady."

They began trading barbs only to be jolted from their fun by a furious banging.

"Xander Harris! Tara Maclay! Open this door right now before I kick it in!"

* * *

Joyce Summers was fixing breakfast for her youngest daughter and lamenting that Dawn, while not a Slayer, had an appetite which rivaled that of her sister.

"It's just _wrong_," she frowned, attending the sizzling bacon.

"What is?" asked the girl in question, mouth crammed full of toast.

"That you speak with your mouth full," she chastised. "It's bad enough you eat as much as your sister. Did you have to pick up her atrocious table manners as well?"

Dawn gave an indignant glare, but its fierceness was belied by the blush pinking her cheeks.

"Did you finish all of your homework?" Joyce pointedly asked, frowning more deeply when her daughter mumbled something unintelligible and dove into her scrambled eggs.

Both looked up as someone began knocking on the kitchen door. Sighing and deciding it was far too early for bad news, Joyce picked up her coffee mug and glided over to the door, surprised to see Anya's face peeking back at her through the café curtains. She opened the door and stood aside.

"Good morning, Anya. How are you?"

The ex-demon snorted and rolled her eyes. "Peachy. I'm trying to dodge your annoying daughter." She glanced at Dawn. "The elder one," she amended.

"Hey!" Dawn shrieked, spraying orange juice across the table.

Anya raised a brow. "She eats just like Buffy."

"Yet another of the many crosses I must bear," Joyce sighed. "Come in, please. Coffee?"

"Yes, thank you," Anya answered with a dreamy sigh. "I got about two hours sleep after last night's misadventures."

"What happened?"

The girl raised her brows. "Didn't anyone call you?" Before Joyce could answer, she charged forward. "No, of course they didn't. Isn't it lovely that you and I seem to be on the Not Notify List for Wonky Hellmouth Things until someone with sense is needed?" She angrily shook her head. "I guess I was just in the right place at the right time. If you can call anything about this town _right_."

Joyce chortled.

Anya took a seat at the island and gratefully relieved the woman of a second cup of coffee. She cleared her throat and appeared to be fighting for words.

"Anya?" Joyce prompted, her worry now evident.

The girl sighed. "There's no good way to say this other than just to say it."

Joyce braced herself and slowly nodded.

"Last night after patrol, we were hanging out at Giles's apartment when Xander got a phone call." She paused, biting her lip. "Cordelia's in a coma."

Dawn shrieked as Joyce dropped her mug.

"What happened?" the woman repeated, this time with more force.

"You know about the visions?"

Dawn and Joyce nodded.

"They've taken their toll," Anya quietly said. "I don't know with whom Xander spoke last night, but I assume it was one of Cordelia's doctors." She averted her eyes. "It's not good. Possible brain damage." She let that settle and took a sip of her coffee. "There could be other problems."

Dawn immediately burst into tears as Joyce settled herself against a counter, ignoring the advancing spill of coffee spreading across the floor. There were numerous questions she wanted to ask, but only one was at the forefront of her thoughts.

"And Xander? How did he take the news?"

"Badly," was the frank admission. "He went to L.A. last night. Cordelia listed him as her next-of-kin, which means he has to make all the decisions for her. He was dreading having to deal with Angel."

"I'm sure," Joyce murmured.

"He took Tara with him," the girl added. "You can imagine how well that went over with Buffy and Willow."

Dawn snorted.

"Oh, god," Joyce groaned, sagging.

"Exactly," Anya nodded. "Xander called me late last night. He's doing surprisingly well, or at least better than I expected," she cocked her head, "but then he usually does when under pressure. He said the doctors are cautiously hopeful, insofar as they believe Cordelia might eventually wake up, but what she'll be like if that happens is anyone's guess."

She suppressed the urge to shrug, not wanted to appear callous. Xander had told her that certain gestures were considered dismissive even if that was not the intent.

"He and Tara are staying at Cordelia's apartment. Apparently she was too busy to call Willow, so Buffy called me to see if I had any news, and then bitched and moaned after I let it slip that I had to talked to Xander. I guess he's supposed to check in with them before going to the bathroom or calling his girlfriend who shares his apartment," she savagely muttered.

Joyce sighed. "I'd apologize on her behalf, but we both know it would be an empty gesture."

Anya's lips twitched and she nodded. "Well, anyway, I just dropped by to fill you in. I know how much I despise it when I'm kept out of the loop." She quickly drained her mug, set it carefully in the sink, and slung her purse back over her shoulder. "I need to get to the shop and open for Giles." Her voice turned soft. "He was...very upset about Cordelia.

"Truthfully, I don't think any of them besides Xander has given her much thought since she left Sunnydale, and there was a lot of guilt and self-recrimination flying about from all sides last night." She surprised herself with her quasi-support of Buffy and Willow. "And poor Riley, he just had no clue. Still, he sided with Xander, which is really all that matters."

Joyce and Dawn tried to assimilate all of that information, but only halfway succeeded.

"Thank you for telling us, honey," Joyce whispered, as she drew the girl into a hug. "I'm quite fond of Cordelia, myself."

"There's more going on here than you can possibly imagine," Anya murmured into her ear. "Xander and I are doing everything we can to help her, but Buffy and Willow are not going to be pleased. I can't tell you more just yet, but when I can, I promise I will."

Startled, Joyce drew back and looked down into the ex-demon's eyes, nodding.

"What are you two whispering about?" Dawn demanded.

"Finish your breakfast and get ready for school," was her mother's sharp reply.

The girl's eyes widened and she grabbed several strips of bacon, laying them over her bowl of cereal, and angrily stalked out of the kitchen.

"She's fun this morning," Anya noted. "I really need to get going," she added, digging in her purse for her keys. "I'll update you as often as I myself am updated. Xander's promised to keep in regular contact, provided circumstances don't interfere."

They embraced again and Joyce led Anya back over to the door. When she opened it, both were startled to find an angry Willow upon the threshold, clutching a note in a white-knuckled hand.

"Buffy took off for Los Angeles," she seethed.

* * *

Buffy Summers poised her fist to knock again on the door of Cordelia Chase's apartment, surprised when it opened to reveal an absolutely furious Xander Harris looking down at her. She swallowed heavily and made her eyes very wide and innocent in the hope that her impetuosity was not going to result in her being handed her ass.

"Why."

It was his only word and it wasn't a question, but a demand.

It was in that moment that Buffy realized how badly she had fucked this up. She had acted without thinking. Again.

"I was worried," she whispered.

He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the jamb.

"No, I don't think so. I think Angel accidentally spilled some beans last night when I asked him to call you." He shook his head, annoyed that Tara had been correct and he had been so short-sighted. "So, figured it out, have you?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Fine. Then it's up to you how you want to play this. Are you going to help me, or are you going to get in my way and force me to do things which both of us will regret?"

She glared at him. "Are you threatening me?"

"I don't make threats; I make promises. And I promise you, Buff, if you do anything which interferes with my helping Cordy, you'll wish I had left you dead in that cave four years ago."

Her mouth fell open and she stared blankly at him, shock and disbelief plain on her face, as was her certainty that he was not being facetious. He was making a deliberate point and it was not lost on her. She owed him.

His eyes blazed with an emotion she was hard-pressed to name. "It's not personal, Buff, it's really not. I would be like this regardless of whether it's you standing here or if it was Willow or Angel or Giles." He leaned forward, their noses almost touching, and stared into her eyes. "Nothing is going to stop me from helping Cordelia. Anything that tries will go down quickly and without mercy."

She swallowed, her mind flashing with her every observation of Xander and Cordelia, before they dated, during, and after, and a realization made itself quite clear. She had always known both were passionate people. Xander all but sweated emotion, and while Cordelia was much more controlled, when dealing with something for which she truly cared, she was ruthless.

They had loved each other.

Intellectually, she had always understood that, had even been jealous and resentful of it, but now she was able to see the depth of that love. There was no doubt in her mind that Xander would do anything - absolutely _anything_ - to ensure Cordelia's life.

For the first time, however, she understood that Cordelia would do the same for him. If Xander had been in her place, Cordelia Chase would've returned to the Hellmouth, conquered it, and left with Xander in tow, bodies littering the road.

Once again she had responded to a situation with her friends as a vampire slayer and not as Buffy. The very people she could always count on to see her for the girl she was, she was now pushing aside to take command. A command which wasn't hers. She hadn't been appointed or asked. This really had nothing to do with her at all.

She had really fucked this up.

"You're not in charge here," he continued, oblivious to her inner musings. "I don't know where you get off thinking you control the world, because you don't. You certainly don't control me, but you seem to forget that with increasing frequency. I'm your best friend, Buff, not your toady." His eyes flashed in warning. "None of this has anything to do with you, so leave it alone."

"You can't help Faith." Why didn't he understand that? Faith had hurt him just as badly as she had Angel and Buffy herself. Perhaps even worse. All she wanted was to protect him, to keep him safe because - she startled with heretofore unacknowledged truth - outside of her mother, Xander Harris was the most important person in her life.

She loved Willow, she adored Dawn, and Giles was her father in everything but name, but Xander...

Xander was her White Knight. She wouldn't survive if she lost him.

"No? Watch me." He turned and went back into the apartment, leaving her standing on the stoop.

Enraged, guilty, and miserable, Buffy tried to enter but was stopped by an unseen force.

"What the hell is this, Xan?" she demanded. "A No Slayer Zone?" She heard Tara's light laughter coming from what she assumed was the bedroom.

"That would be Dennis blocking your path," he said. "I guess he doesn't like your attitude either."

"What? Who?"

"Phantom Dennis. He's a ghost and Cordy's roommate. He's also very protective of her; and of her friends, it would seem." His shoulders sagged. "Tell you what, Buff. Why don't you toddle over to the Hyperion and talk to the one you really came to see?"

She set her jaw and flushed, her ire lit. "I am not here for Angel," she ground out. "I love Riley, and you _know_ that, Xander. I'm here for you. I was worried about _you_."

"No," he countered. "You were worried about what I might do. You were angry that I was operating without your approval."

She fell silent. He was right and she knew it, and she knew that he knew she knew.

Damn.

"You know what really pisses me off?" he added. "I mean aside from the fact of you showing up and dictating how I'm supposed to behave?"

His arms tensed at his sides, his hands curled into fists, and she could see his frustration not only with her, but the entire situation.

"I was just about to call you, after my whopping two hours of sleep, to tell you my plan. But instead of believing me, you drove down here to get in my face, demanding answers and telling me what I will and won't be doing. After all of these years, after all I've done, you still don't trust me."

"That's not true at all!"

Christ, did he really believe his words? Did he truly not know how much she loved him?

Had she ever told him?

He gave her a stony look. "You just think you can do better."

It was like a fist in her gut.

She dropped her eyes and offered no answer. One wasn't required.

* * *

Rupert Giles was rather discombobulated when he answered his front door shortly after eight in the morning to find an annoyed ex-demon, a pissed-off witch, and an icy mother of a Slayer on his threshold. He gathered Dawn had already been deposited at school.

Exhausted from lack of sleep, he looked at them, shrugged, turned around, and shuffled his way toward his kitchen, desperately seeking a cup of impossibly strong tea. They could invite themselves in as easily as they had appeared unannounced. He absently wondered if forms of evil other than vampires were restricted to the no-invitation policy. He would have to research it later.

"Buffy's run off to Los Angeles," Anya said evenly.

"How could she leave me behind?" Willow angrily demanded.

"Why wasn't I informed about Cordelia?" asked a frosty Joyce.

Tremendous. The Furies had descended upon his doorstep and he had no scones for his tea.

He sighed and kept his counsel. They weren't really looking for answers, after all, merely someone at whom they could vent their frustrations.

He felt rather stupid, actually. He should have guessed that Buffy would do something reckless and leave him to clean up the mess. He was quite sorry he hadn't been able to accompany her, if only to see the look on Xander's face at her arrival. Really, she should know better by now than to underestimate him.

Oh, well. Xander would disabuse her of that nonsense soon enough, he suspected.

The three women were still ranting away, gesticulating wildly, as the kettle began to whistle its sharp cry. Quickly pouring the steaming water into a waiting mug, Giles then calmly walked over to the phone affixed to the wall and began dialing.

"Hello, Angel. Rupert Giles here."

Joyce, Anya, and Willow paused in their whining.

"Yes, it's nice to speak with you, as well," the Watcher politely said, rolling his eyes. "I just thought I should inform you that Buffy has taken it upon herself to sneak off to Los Angeles and, er, check in on Xander and Tara."

As predicted, the vampire issued a litany of creative invectives which Giles thought oddly appropriate to the situation.

"Well, I'm sure she's already arrived at Cordelia's apartment, so for its safety as well as that of those within it, and perhaps the entire city, might I suggest you make your way over there and attempt to diffuse the situation?"

He paused and listened.

"No, I really would not advise bringing Wesley with you. Neither Buffy nor Xander has much use for him and his presence would only further serve to alienate them. I believe you have another associate? A Mister Gunn? Perhaps he would be a more prudent choice."

He frowned. "I'm sorry? Er, no, I will _not_ be calling Xander or Buffy, thank you. My hands are rather full at the moment with her mother, his girlfriend, and Willow. Please give my best to Cordelia when you see her."

With that, he hung up and turned toward the menagerie in his living room, disregarding their gaping stares.

"Now, then. There are several things I need to say, and you will do me the courtesy of shutting up and allowing me to do so. Is that clear?"

One after the other, each nodded, and he returned to his living room.

"Excellent," he nodded. "I gather it was Anya who alerted you as to Cordelia's condition?" he asked Joyce, who again nodded. "Thank you, Anya, for showing initiative and correcting our oversight. It was not that we meant to exclude you, Joyce, but there was simply so much happening at the time that it truly didn't occur to us to inform you, and for that I sincerely apologize."

He waited for the woman to acknowledge his words with a sharp nod of her head before he continued.

"Willow," he began, "I fear that for too long I have allowed both you and Buffy to linger under the mistaken impression that you are by any means in charge."

Her eyes widened.

"You are not," he continued. "Magic or not, Council or not, you and Buffy simply have neither the knowledge nor the wisdom to lead. You act impulsively and run roughshod over other people, so entrenched in what you believe is your divine right, simply because the Powers That Be have seen fit to imbue you with supernatural abilities."

He shook his head. "Allow me to remind you that you are not the only witch in our little, er, coven, and that Tara has shown remarkable restraint and patience in the face of your nonsense." He raised a brow. "I do wonder how much longer that trend will continue, don't you?"

She swallowed heavily and dropped her eyes to the floor.

The Watcher was severely annoyed by now, however, and her token submission did not impress him.

"I fail to understand why neither you nor Buffy believe Xander and Tara capable of a two-hour drive to a city in order to check on Xander's former girlfriend, a woman for whom you never cared, and who currently lies in a coma. If you have a reasonable explanation for your groundless fears, please do enlighten me. I look forward to hearing it."

She remained silent.

"Ah. I see. So this is less about Xander's capability than it is your jealousy."

He ignored her soft squawk.

"Why you're jealous of with whom Xander spends his time simply mystifies me, given that he is not your boyfriend, that he never was, that his girlfriend is currently standing right beside you, and that you have a girlfriend of your own."

He found her splutter rather endearing.

"How you can still be so threatened by Cordelia is truly unfathomable, for she never had any more power over you than that which you ceded to her."

He peered more closely at her, cocking his head.

"Perhaps that is the problem? Whatever the case, Xander rushed to her side because she needed his help. He would do the same for any one of us, for which I personally am most grateful. I suggest you start approaching this situation from that view, rather than from the one of spiteful envy which you have wrongly interpreted as righteous indignation."

Willow flushed spectacularly and nodded.

"Excellent. On to other things, then. Anya, I take it you have spoken with Xander?"

"I have."

"And he no doubt has some nebulous master plan for Cordelia's care which he has shared only with you."

Her lips twisted into a wry smile. "He does."

"Wonderful! And none of us shall interfere with that," he said, looking only at Willow, who tearfully nodded. He then turned to Joyce.

"Again, I apologize for not informing you myself, but I was rather mired in my own depression and stymied by my own helplessness. We both know that Cordelia is in good hands and there's no point in worrying about it further, for there is nothing we can do to help her condition. We will certainly not take it upon ourselves to go rushing down to Los Angeles and corral your foolish daughter. By now, I'm quite sure that Xander will have her well in hand."

He gave a small nervous smile, faltered, and then grinned widely.

"However, if he does not, and if he insists on reverting to stubbornness, I believe we can both take comfort in the fact that Tara will deal with them effectively, can we not?"

Joyce smiled wryly. "We can."

"Outstanding!" he exclaimed. "Then I suggest we all go about our lives and try not to worry. I know I certainly won't. Xander obviously knows what he's doing and has asked Anya for help; she's the most knowledgeable amongst us, though I am loath to admit it. It's rather difficult for me to concede that a girl who looks no more than twenty knows far more than I ever will."

He blinked and cleared his throat, wondering what that admission would later cost him.

"At any rate, I believe we all know that Xander will do whatever is necessary to help Cordelia, and I frankly pity Angel and Buffy should they try to go against him." His eyes shined with unholy glee at the prospect. "Tara is a formidable ally and I trust her to look after him. Now, if that's all, I'd like to shower and change, and continue looking for some answers, just in case Xander needs them."

He nodded to them. "Good morning."

He then departed from their company and headed up the stairs, humming cheerfully.

"Is anyone else really, really turned on?" Anya asked.

Joyce raised her hand and, after several long moments, so did Willow.

* * *

Cordelia Chase was unhappy.

She had been standing before the altar or whatever of the Powers That Be, who had presumably been the ones to summon her, and now they had the audacity to ignore her demands.

This would not stand. Who did these dorks think they were?

Didn't they understand who _she_ was?

It was time they found out.

"What the hell am I doing here?" she barked.

Of course they didn't answer her directly, but saw fit to do so through those infuriating Oracles whose skin looked like cheap wrapping paper one purloined from 7-11 in the wee hours of Christmas morning.

Not that she knew anything about that!

"It is not to question," the male sniffed, dismissing her with a prissy wave of his hand. "It is to obey. Send it away."

That was the wrong answer.

And it was _on_.

She charged the dais and the man-thing was so stunned, he did nothing but stand there and gape, an expression soon replaced with one of quiet bliss when her fist connected with his temple and he collapsed into unconsciousness.

She whirled and faced his female counterpart, who was now wide-eyed and wary.

"I am not an it. I am not a Lower Being or any of the other charming names you've been hurling at me for however long we've been at this. So listen and listen good, bitch, because I don't myself."

Cordelia drew herself up, squared her shoulders, tossed her hair, and cocked a hip. "I want answers and I want them now, or I'm going to rip your head off your shoulders and shove it firmly up your dimpled ass. Am I making myself clear?"

"I am immortal."

"Interesting, but irrelevant." She leaned forward with a look of ferocious intensity. "How would you like to spend eternity in pieces?"

Her words were heeded, she was pleased to note.

Ha! And Angel couldn't deal with these freaks? What a loser.

"The Powers have detected a conspiracy against you; or rather, against the Champion. You were intended only to be the instrument."

Cordelia curled a lip and willed herself not to sigh and roll her eyes, though the temptation was overwhelming. Instead, she impatiently tapped a foot and gave a curt nod.

"Go on."

"The visions have taken their toll on your mortality," the woman continued, "and there is little the Powers can do to interfere with that without violating free will and Fate."

"Uh huh."

The hell was this cow saying?

"Another Champion has taken it upon himself to impede this plot and the Powers have been debating whether or not to allow this."

Cordelia blinked. _Another_ Champion? She thought the only Champion was Angel and _maybe_ Buffy.

Of course, if the Slayer was a Champion, didn't that make Faith one, too?

Brr. That was a scary thought.

But the bitch now before her had clearly stated that this other Champion was male. And - hey! - who were the Powers to allow or disallow anything this person was trying to do to help her? Wasn't that a violation of this other Champion's free will?

"Who's the guy?"

"Alexander Harris."

Her eyes bugged.

Xander?

Doofy, goofy Xander Harris was a Champion?

_Xander?_

Her ex-boyfriend who hadn't even had the decency to cheat on her with someone who knew how to use eyeliner? The irony of the universe was cruel indeed.

Then she really _thought_ about it.

He had brought Buffy back from death and had saved Faith from those crazy evil nuns. He had also tricked Buffy into getting rid of Angelus and had stopped zombies from blowing open the Hellmouth. Of course, no one else was supposed to know about those things, and she supposed that such feats and many others, combined with his big eyes and big…other things...rendered him marginally cool, and she guessed it was nice that someone somewhere was keeping score.

So, yeah, she could buy Xander as a Champion. It wasn't as if he was a nitwitted faux blond or a souled angst-filled vampire who had two hundred years of badness for which to atone.

"Okay," she said, shrugging, "but why are the Powers even getting involved? Doesn't that interfere with Xander's free will?"

The Oracle grimaced. "Yes, it does, and that is the crux of the problem." She laced her fingers together. "The Champion has already refuted prophecy and thrown things out of balance, not just once but several times. If he was allowed to do so again, it would be nearly impossible to predict what might happen and the world could plunge into chaos."

Cordelia blinked. "Hello. Can you tools get Dish up here? Because it's obvious that you're missing a lot. The world is already in chaos.

"The Champion of your cause is a _vampire_," she continued. "Granted, an insanely hot vampire who's my best friend, but still." She put her hands on her hips. "And what about the Slayers? Neither one is exactly a ringing endorsement for mental health. They both abuse their powers as they see fit and Xander's the first one who really ever stepped up to stop that, so what the hell is the problem here?"

The Oracle said nothing.

Cordelia smirked. "You have no control over the Slayers, do you? Neither do the Powers!" She threw back her head and cackled. "Oh, wow, that's got to _suck_ for them!"

She shook her head in wry amusement. "So, what, the Powers are upset because Xander _didn't_ let his friend die? Because he stopped Hell from appearing on earth? Twice? Are your holy Powers that sadistic?" Her anger at their snub reignited. "And why aren't they speaking for themselves, huh? What is this, _Dogma_? Will the sound of their voices make my head explode?"

The Oracle opened her mouth to protest, but was cut off.

"You bore me," Cordelia complained. "Tell your bosses to start explaining things directly or send me back from wherever the hell this is. I'll take my chances with Xander. At least I know he cares about me." She frowned. "Or is scared of me." She shrugged. "Whatever."

At once the Oracles disappeared and she was facing three cloaked figures.

She sneered. "Well, well. Are we finally going to get to it?"

"Greetings, Seer," the middle one said, drawing back the hood of his cloak.

Confidence and bravado fled, leaving a pale and shaken girl in their wake, eyes narrowed in pain and misery.

"Doyle?"

* * *

Angel charged through the sewers toward Cordelia's apartment, knowing it was faster than trying to maneuver through the morning traffic of downtown Los Angeles. Gunn was nipping at his heels, still unsure about the big emergency and why he had to forgo sleep and breakfast to attend to it.

"So Buffy's here," he panted. "So what?"

"It's hard to explain without you knowing them," said a grim Angel though clenched teeth. "Buffy and Xander argue all the time, but it's usually worry for the other's safety. When Cordelia or I are involved, it's decidedly...unpleasant."

"What do you mean?"

Angel grimaced, having neither the time nor inclination to explain, but knowing Gunn would halt in his tracks and precious time would be lost in which Xander and Buffy could wage an apocalypse.

"He doesn't like me; she doesn't like Cordy." Best to open with understatement. "It would be different if one or both of them hated us, but they don't."

Xander not hating him surprisingly infused him with warmth.

"He showed me last night at the hospital that he cares for me, even if it's begrudgingly and only because of Cordy. Fine. We could have been friends, but too much has happened. Still, we've managed to be allies when it counted."

"So you're on his side."

Angel nodded. "As far as Cordelia is concerned, yes, absolutely." He paused. "Xander will kill anything that hurts her, Gunn, and though you wouldn't know it to look at him, he is a force to be reckoned with."

Gunn's eyes widened. "You really think you're gonna have to fight your ex over this?"

Angel picked up the pace, wondering when the other man had gotten ahead of him.

"Where Xander is concerned, Buffy is irrational at best."

He shook his head, no closer to understanding their dynamic than he had ever been.

"They've never been lovers but regard each other as such, just without the sex. They're possessive of one another and are vindictive against the other's suitors."

He sighed. "As for the girls, Buffy and Cordy never got on, but when Cordy started dating Xander, Buffy was...," he exhaled forcefully, "jealousy doesn't cut it, okay? And I'm betting Anya fares no better. I'm not even including Willow, which is a whole other mess of strange. Xander didn't like me from the beginning, even though he had barely known Buffy before he met me."

He glowered. "Although, he seems to like her new boyfriend just fine."

Why _did_ that bother him so much?

"So it's 'cause you're a vamp?" Gunn asked. He then shrugged. "Well, can't blame him."

Angel paused, turned, and glared.

Gunn held up his hands. "Hey, no offense, but you know I wasn't all fluffy for you either at first, especially not after what happened with Alonna. I came around and realized you were worth putting up with. I guess this Xander is the same." He shrugged again. "Yeah, you're my bud, but I get where he's coming from." He looked scornfully at Angel. "You telling me you like all humans? Hell, you don't even like your own kind!"

"Why?" Angel seethed.

The other man frowned. "Why what?"

"Why do you have to make sense? Nothing about Xander is supposed to make sense!"

Gunn's laughter echoed throughout the tunnel.

* * *

Angel and Gunn rushed across the courtyard of Cordelia's building and banged on the door to her apartment. They heard bustling inside and what sounded like stifled groans and squeaks. They turned to each other with raised brows.

"Whatever's happening in there is either really, really good," Gunn drawled, eyes sparkling, "or really, really bad."

Angel grunted but said nothing, swinging his head back around when the door was thrown open by Tara.

"Hello," she warmly greeted them, sticking out her hand. "You must be Charles Gunn. I'm Tara Maclay. It's nice to meet you."

He took her hand and gave her an obvious appraisal, liking what he saw.

"I'm a lesbian."

His grin became a leer. She chuckled and led them inside.

As the three entered the living room, both Gunn and Angel were rather startled to see Xander and Buffy sitting opposite each other, gazes searing but voices silent. Their arms appeared to be locked at their sides, but no restraints were apparent. They turned to Tara for an explanation.

She shrugged a shoulder. "I got tired of listening to them, so I froze and silenced them."

Gunn snickered with delight while Angel fought to maintain his stoic mask.

"What happened?" the vampire asked.

"Well," she said briskly, "Buffy showed up unannounced because she figured out Xander had been to see Faith..."

Immediately both Xander and the Slayer began struggling against their invisible bonds and trying to speak.

"Save it!" Tara snapped at them. "Buffy, if Xander wants to go see Faith, he doesn't need your permission. Xander, Angel already figured it out, I'm sure. Other than he and Cordy, you don't know anyone in L.A. besides Faith." She frowned and narrowed her eyes. "I thought we went through this already?"

Xander winced and Buffy sagged, and Angel and Gunn would have sworn they heard the former's sighs even through the charms.

Tara then turned to Angel. "Yes, I know Xander's plan. No, I won't tell it to you, and if you insist on becoming obnoxious, I'll have to take matters into my own hands."

His mouth fell open and she pressed the advantage.

"A little birdie told me you have a weakness for Barry Manilow." Her eyes became huge and limpid. "If would be a terrible shame if you were to burst into song at unexpected and inopportune moments, wouldn't it? Say, the next time you were in a fight or at that pesky law firm?"

She whirled on her heel to face Buffy. "As for you, how would you like to find yourself unable to have an orgasm for a year?"

Buffy's eyes widened with horror as Angel stumbled but refrained from total collapse. Gunn doubled over and beat his thigh with a fist, wheezing with hysterical laughter.

"Now," Tara continued, once again facing Angel and Gunn, "I've been trying to convince the both of them that it's in everyone's best interest if they play nicely together but they refuse to be reasonable. My cell phone's been blowing up with messages from Willow and Joyce."

She frowned. "Strangely, nothing from Anya, but I gather she has assignments of her own," she smirked, sparing a knowing look at Xander. "I did receive one message from Giles and it's his example I choose to follow."

She stared down at Xander and Buffy.

"If you two insist on acting like spoiled brats, I'll have to take complete control. Buffy, I can and will send you back to Sunnydale; this is Xander's show, and you weren't given a ticket. Xander, you don't have time to waste; airing petty grudges does not help Cordelia. Buffy is your best friend and you love her. You know she's terrified for you, so suck it up and stop acting like a such a jackass."

Both Xander and Buffy turned their eyes toward the floor.

Tara turned back to Angel and Gunn. "Now, then. Wesley called Cordelia's machine and gave us the latest and I also spoke with her doctor this morning. She is slowly emerging from the coma, although she's still unconscious. The latest EEG results indicate that there should be no impairment but the doctors are still hedging about personality changes. I really don't think that's going to be an issue, but I'm no doctor."

She looked singularly at Angel. "Whose side are you on?"

"Cordelia's."

Her gaze was approving. "Good answer. Do you stand by what you said last night in the hospital? That you'll trust Xander to take care of her?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not really, no," she demurred. "You _do_ have a choice in how difficult you're going to make it for him, which in turn should give you pause about how difficult I can make things for _you_."

She let that sink in for a moment and reveled in the stunned look on Buffy's face and the laughter dancing in Xander's eyes.

"Of course," she added nonchalantly, "I'm sure you're aware that I've already chosen my side and that, if pressed, reinforcements will arrive from Sunnydale. You know as well as I do that no matter how much they argue, the Scoobies will unite for one of their own, even if it's against you."

She paused. "In fact, for some of them, _especially_ if it's against you."

He curtly nodded. "I trust Xander."

Xander gurgled.

"I trust you to do what's best for Cordy," he amended.

The boy grunted.

"Wonderful!" Tara said, beaming. She then turned back to Buffy. "I think this is really more about your fear for Xander than it is your anger toward Faith. Oh, you resent her because Xander still cares for her, but I think you want to help Cordelia as much as he does."

Buffy hesitated and then, with a concerted effort, inclined her head.

"And you trust Xander?"

Another nod, far more emphatic if slightly annoyed.

"Good. So I'm going to release your bonds and you and Xander are going to talk this out." She clucked her tongue. "Buffy, if you continue to be uncooperative and unhelpful, you're going back to Sunnydale by whatever means I deem necessary or amusing, just like I said."

She turned and thrust a wagging finger in Xander's face. "And you will listen to her concerns and opinions; you owe her that courtesy. If you don't, I'm knocking you unconscious and Anya and I will handle the rest of it."

Xander and Buffy nodded, and Tara waved her hand to release the spells.

Angel stared at the witch while Gunn burst into thunderous applause. Watching Tara at work was eerily reminiscent of Cordelia, sadly without the barbs and emphatic gestures, though still quite compelling.

Lesbians were so damn hot!

"Remind me never to piss you off again," Xander gasped.

"Will you really need a reminder?" she cooed.

He shuddered and frantically shook his head. "No!"

Buffy looked at Tara with a mixture of awe and anger. Wisely, she said nothing.

"Who wants breakfast?" the witch chirped.

* * *

A few hours after the scene at his apartment, Giles strolled into the Magic Box and was unsurprised to find a gleeful Anya counting money.

"Welcome, beloved customer, to the...oh. It's you."

He nodded. "Good morning. Any word from Xander?"

She shook her head, quickly thumbing through a stack of bills with a speed which both startled and fascinated him. "No, but I just got a call from Tara." She smirked. "Buffy showed up at Cordelia's apartment and she and Xander screamed at each other until Tara spelled them both."

She grinned, her tongue poking through her teeth. "Then Angel and one of his platonic male life partners arrived, and Tara proceeded to give them all orders and then made them breakfast. She's a nice person."

Giles twitched his lips, desperately trying not to snicker. "That girl is rather fierce."

"She reminds me of Joyce," a distracted Anya replied, making notes in her ledger.

"Quite." He paused, wondering how to phrase his question, before deciding to ask it outright. "So, are you going to tell me about this master plan?"

He hoped his curiosity hadn't sounded too pathetic.

Anya looked up from the counter and ensnared him with an inscrutable, measured gaze for several long moments. "No."

He nodded as if he had expected no less. "Very well. Is there anything I can do to assist him?"

She sighed. "Honestly there isn't, but I thank you for the offer. I managed to pull off most of what Xander needed, with some help from Spike." Seeing the Watcher's mouth fall open, she cut him off. "No, I didn't have to pay him," she happily explained, eyes shining with pride. "I used threats and intimidation."

He frowned. "Why doesn't that work for Buffy?"

"Spike's not scared of Buffy."

"But he is of you?"

She quirked a brow. "Aren't you?"

"A bit," Giles confessed, his face coloring.

She beamed. "At any rate, I'm glad you're here. Dawn has a half-day at school and I told Joyce I'd pick her up." Her voice dropped, as did her eyes. "Joyce has a doctor's appointment."

"These headaches are getting worse, aren't they?" he quietly asked.

"I think so," she murmured. "She doesn't want to talk about them and I don't press her, because I think Buffy's already doing that."

He nodded, his jaw set.

"So I'm going to go get Dawn, pick up some lunch for the three of us - which I will expense - and bring her back here. I'm drafting her to help with inventory."

"You're giving her busywork."

"Exactly."

"And Xander?"

She shrugged. "I've done what I can. The rest is up to him and...other parties." She offered a firm nod, which appeared to Giles more for her own benefit than his. "He'll take care of it."

Of that, he had no doubt, yet he still worried. "And what of Buffy?"

"Tara will take care of her."

He shook his head. "I really don't want to know what's going on, do I?"

"You really don't," she agreed. She then grabbed her purse and keys and stormed out of the shop.

Giles watched her leave, wondering when she had so endeared herself to him while at the same time pondering whence he might procure a pet rabbit.

* * *

"I don't understand why this is necessary!" Buffy hissed, struggling for a civil tone.

She and Xander were locked in Cordelia's bedroom, Tara having cast charms to make sure they weren't eavesdropped upon by Angel's sensitive ears or any nosy neighbors.

He sighed and ran a hand over his face. "Buff, do you really think Angel can do this on his own?"

She ground her teeth. "He's not on his own!" she protested, not answering the question. "He has Wesley and that Gunn guy."

"And how is he supposed to fight the bad stuff or seek his redemption or whatever," he sneered, "if he doesn't have a Seer?"

She crossed her arms and glared. "Faith's not a Seer!"

"But she does have mystical radar," he patiently explained, not for the first time. "She knows where the creepy will go down, just like you do." His brow furrowed. "Well, not _exactly_ like you. I mean, she doesn't get those weird cramps." He blinked. "Hey! Do you get those around Angel? Because that would be super awkward but it would explain a lot about your reaction to Spike."

At her curled lip and snarl, he decided it best not to wait for a reply and pushed forward.

"Gunn and Wes are the muscle and brains, respectively. Just like we all have our roles to help you, Cordelia has hers to help Angel."

He let her think about that for a moment, knowing she didn't like it any more than he did, which didn't make it any less true.

"No, Faith isn't the ideal replacement, but she's as close as we're going to get."

He sighed and sat down on the bed, beckoning her over. She hesitated, so he unleashed the Puppy Eyes, after which he had to wait approximately three seconds for her to join him.

"Buffy, what good is she doing just sitting in jail? What does that accomplish in the long run? By that logic, shouldn't Angel be in a cell next to her? Shouldn't Spike?"

He frowned at her silence. "Why are we even arguing about this? There's important stuff to do!" He cupped her chin with his hand. "Do I trust her? I'm not sure, but Angel _does_, and that's really all that matters."

Buffy was really bothered by the fact that he was right.

"Well," she prevaricated, "how do you know the stupid Powers won't just send him another Seer?"

He paused, reflecting on what was a very good question.

"I don't; it's just a feeling I get." He ran a hand through his hair. "From what Anya told me, Seers like Cordy are really rare and there's only one at a time. They get the visions to help the Champion. Doyle gave the visions to Cordy because he knew he was going to die. I don't plan on letting Cordy die, so even when she goes away, she'll still be the Seer."

Buffy frowned. But wasn't she also a Champion? How come she didn't have a Seer? She looked fleetingly at Xander before realization struck her.

Oh.

She did, kind of. She just never listened to him.

Clearing her throat and trying to focus, she asked her next question. "Why are you doing this for him?"

He stared into her eyes. "I'll answer your question, if you'll answer mine. Total honesty, okay? No deliberating, no avoiding."

She was wary, but his quid pro quo was fair. She nodded.

"What would you do if it were me?"

Baffled, she screwed up her face. "Huh?"

"What if I was where Cordelia is right now?" he quietly asked.

His words cut through her and her mouth immediately snapped shut. Her lips pursed as her eyes filled. She fought to breathe, finally managing through her nose, which was suddenly congested and therefore gross.

She pitched herself forward at him, her arms going around his torso as she buried her face in his neck, abandoning all pretense.

"I can't even bear to think about it," she whispered, her breath catching several times as she choked on tears.

"But I have to," he murmured, stroking her hair, his head resting on her shoulder. "If it helps Angel or Faith, whatever. That's just gravy."

A sob was torn from his throat.

"She _trusts_ me, Buff." He shook his head in misery. "I never thought I'd have that again after what I did to her. I hurt her so badly, yet she trusts me with her _life_." Every muscle in his body tightened with resolve. "I _have_ to help her. I have to do everything for her I possibly can, and that means helping the people she loves."

Of course it did. Why hadn't she realized that sooner?

"Where will she go? Cordelia, I mean."

"I can't tell you."

She quirked a brow at the flat admission and squeezed him tighter. She knew there was no way she was going to get it out of him and it would be pointless to try.

"Will she be okay?"

"I don't know," he whispered.

She heard the pain and uncertainty in his voice and, as angry as she was at his obstinacy, as worried as she was for Cordelia, as horrified as she was about Faith, her love for and trust in Alexander Harris overrode her every other thought and emotion.

"How can I help?"

* * *

Cordelia stared at him for a long moment, cursing the infernal Powers for being so sadistic, even while a tiny part of her mind questioned if this could be real, if he could really be standing before her, close enough to touch. And then she got pissed.

"What the hell is this?" she shrieked. "Doyle! What the _fuck_ is going on here?"

He grinned. "Ach, I love it when you swear, Princess."

She curled a lip, no closer to gauging if she was truly seeing him, if this was an elaborate ploy by fickle Powers, or merely a cruel hoax perpetrated by her own imagination. She defensively crossed her arms over her chest and glared. Whatever the case, she wasn't wasting this precious opportunity to give him a piece of her mind.

"You ruined my life!"

His green eyes reflected both resignation and pain. "I know," he whispered, breaking away from him companions, who vanished, and stepping closer to her, surprised yet pleased when she didn't back away, "and I'm sorry. I truly am, Princess, but there was no other way. There was no one else."

Her brow furrowed. "Well, how about Angel, huh? What, you didn't want to lock lips with him?"

"What makes you think we never did?"

She groaned and put a hand to her forehead. "In my incredibly unique filing system, that goes under _S_ for _Should Have Been Hot, But Not_." She shook her head. "Doyle! What is this? What the hell is going on? Why are you here? Why am _I_ here? Where _are_ we?"

"In a world between worlds." He shrugged. "The easiest way to describe it is another dimension. Or the astral plane, if you prefer."

"I don't, thanks," she sharply retorted, "and that answers only one of my questions. Why are you here?" She tossed her hair, her eyes widening with rage. "Do you really expect me to believe that _you're_ one of the Powers That Be?" She shook her head. "Because if you are, I'm going to beat the Bailey's out of you for all you've put me through," she growled. "And what the heck was all that crap about Xander? What does he have to do with any of this?"

He took another step forward, his gaze searing and locked with her own. "Your young Alexander is at this moment seeking a way to help you." He trained his eyes upon the floor. "You're in a coma, Cordy." He raised his gaze. "You remember you listed him as your next-of-kin? Well, he's in Los Angeles right now. Your apartment, in fact, fighting with Buffy and quite possibly Angel."

She grimaced. "Figures her Fake Blondeness would weasel her way into this." She frowned and held up a hand. "Wait. What the hell am I saying? What is Xander doing?"

"Finding you an out. Or, at least a way to help you cope."

She sharply inhaled. "Has he?"

Doyle cautiously nodded. "He has, but it won't be easy and will be a tremendous strain on him. He's enlisted a powerful witch and a former vengeance demon for aid, and their plan is working."

She nodded dully, realizing he was probably talking about Willow the Red Menace and the Evil Fairy, Anya. "And the cost?" she asked, because she knew there would be one; there always was. "To him?"

He resisted the urge to smile; for all her bluster, the heart of his Princess was as wide as the sea.

"He will have to keep many secrets," he warned, "and he will have to guard them carefully to protect both you and himself." He shook his head. "The Slayer doesn't want him involved, and Angel is wary but respectful of your wishes. He knows Xander would do nothing to hurt you and would stop at nothing to help."

"That doesn't answer my question," she snapped, her annoyance with him and her worry for Xander growing with every syllable. "What is he doing, and how will it affect me?"

"He's making plans to send you away to get the help you need and, unbeknownst to him, to help another who needs you."

She raised her eyebrows. "Away? He thinks he's going to send me away?" She chuckled darkly and shook her head. "No, no, I don't think so. Not after all this shit. I've managed for months with these stupid visions and I'm not giving them up without a fight." She squared her shoulders. "Angel needs me. Those people out there, the ones we help, _they_ need me. I'm not throwing all of that away because Xander thinks he _might_ be able to help with the pain."

"Then you will die," he said flatly, "and with your death, Angel will become unhinged and reckless."

She considered his answer for only a second. "Oh, but he'll be just dandy if I take off to god knows where on Xander's say-so?" She scoffed. "Yeah, okay."

"At least you'll be alive!" he barked. "It will be far easier for Angel to mourn your absence than your passing." He shook his head and growled in frustration. "Don't you get it yet, Princess? You're _his_ White Knight."

She felt the heat rise in her cheeks and angrily looked away.

Well, sure, she knew that, sort of, and she knew it would devastate Angel were he to lose her, just as it would kill Buffy if anything ever happened to Xander. And losing the pain of the visions while keeping the visions themselves was a nifty idea. But leave?

She had left Sunnydale with nothing; no money, no family, and no friends. She had started over in L.A., and even though the creepy stuff had followed, it had been okay, because she had Angel and Doyle, and then Wesley, and now Gunn.

"How could you do that?" she demanded. "How could you just leave me?"

"Because it was my time," he whispered, undeterred by the change of subject. "Because it was the only way. And because you are needed far more than I ever was."

"That's not true!"

He grinned. "But it is and you know it, and I'm okay with it now. I need you to be, too." His face became serious. "Princess, haven't you realized that it was planned? You were always meant to replace me, even if I didn't know it at the time."

"No one can replace you!"

Startled, his mouth fell open. Those were the words which for so long he had been desperate to hear.

"I'm not saying it," she stubbornly hissed.

"Then I will. I love you, too, Cordelia."

She burst into tears.

"Ach! None of that," he begged, awkwardly patting her shoulder. "You and I, we weren't meant for each other. It wouldn't have worked it out." He paused. "No matter how much I wish it would have," he muttered under his breath. "I had my destiny, and it was fulfilled. You have yours," he smiled sadly at her, "and you have miles to go before you sleep, Princess."

Cold comfort, she thought. "Are you one of the Powers?"

He shook his head. "No, but I am one of their representatives. My one selfless act got me a major promotion, you see," he said, puffing up, "and it was quite a coup. They needed someone who understood what it meant to be both human and demon, one who understands the struggles of each." He paused. "I am so sorry for what I've done to you," he whispered. "I never knew what would happen, of the damage the visions would cause. All I knew was that they had to go on and I trusted you more than any other."

"Why?" She hated how plaintive she sounded, how desperately she needed his explanation, his validation.

"Because you not only see truth, you live it. You demand nothing less from those around you. You see it in others and make them confront it." He fell silent for a moment. "It's a powerful gift, one often taken for granted or discounted by most, but always, _always_ necessary."

They were pretty words, but did little to assuage her terror and doubt. "So I'm supposed to, what? Wake up and ship out to wherever Xander sends me? And what about Angel? How's he supposed to deal without my visions? What the hell good is a rudderless Champion?"

Ah, there was the rub, and Doyle knew this next part would not go over so well. "Well, you see, your Xander has a plan for that, too. It involves a pretty young lass currently serving twenty-five to life."

The explosion was immediate.

* * *

"You can't be serious."

"I'm totally serious," Xander calmly said. "Cordy is going to get better. I have to believe that and so do you, but she won't be able to do it here. She needs to be with people who understand what she's going through, who have access to things we don't."

"What has this to do with Faith?" the vampire growled.

Xander startled somewhat at the menacing tone, no longer used to dealing with Angel on a regular basis and, he admitted now, if only to himself, that he had been lulled into a false sense of security with Spike because of the vampire's inability to cause harm.

Now he was locked in Cordelia's bedroom with Angel, which was uncomfortable for both of them. Tara had again silenced the room to ensure the privacy of what he would impart to Angel, and while Xander had wanted that when he had rowed with Buffy, he was decidedly uncomfortable about being trapped in a room with Angel and being unable to call for help. He was angry and resentful, believing he had grown out of the inferiority complex which Angel's presence in Sunnydale had exacerbated.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Angel quietly said.

The boy fidgeted. "I know." He sighed. "Look, this isn't about us."

"Us? There's an us now?"

"What? No!" Xander spluttered before glaring at the amusement dancing in Angel's eyes. "I meant that this isn't about you and me arguing over a girl again. I know you love Cordy; you know I do, too. We both want what's best for her."

Angel hesitated and then nodded. "Okay, but I still don't know where Faith comes in."

What a moron! "Because you can't do this on your own!"

Angel's eyes widened.

Xander began pacing. "I...I don't know how to say this other than just to say it."

"Okay." Really, he was used to it by now. In fact, he was coming to find he had rather missed it.

"As much as I don't like to admit it, you...you save the world a lot. You're a good...vampire."

Angel opened his mouth to respond, but Xander barreled ahead.

"And Cordy is a large part of that. You need someone who can see through you the way Buffy never could. You need someone who knows who you are and isn't afraid to confront you when get all morose and stupid."

"Thanks."

"I'm really not trying to be mean, okay?" an exasperated Xander countered, running a hand through his hair, causing it to stand on end.

Angel could see the boy's weariness etched on his face and the terror hiding just behind his eyes.

"You're needed, Angel. So many people depend on you and they don't even know your name." He pursed his lips. "But _you_ depend on Cordy. She sees through your bullshit. She knows when you need the help for which you'll never ask."

"Like Buffy depends on you."

Xander hesitated and then nodded once. "I don't think she always realizes that I have a role beyond being her friend, and when she does get a glimpse of it, she resents me for it." He paused. "Do you resent Cordy?"

"No. I'm grateful."

He was rather surprised as a look of wistful longing look overtook Xander's face before just as instantly disappearing.

"You need help. I don't know Gunn, but he's too new. Wes has changed, and even I can see it, but he doesn't really comprehend what this life entails. How lonely it can be, how much rests on your shoulders," he sighed and gave Angel a sad smile, "and how tempting it can be to throw it all away."

Angel swallowed heavily and wondered how he been able to dismiss for so long the toll this life took not only on him and Buffy, but on those who chose to stand beside them.

Cordelia had been preying on his thoughts ever since the beginning of the coma and too late he had realized that he had been remiss in checking up on her, had been too complacent by just hoping and wishing that she would be all right, despite sensing that there were problems but being too afraid to address them, as if doing so would somehow cause them to come to fruition.

Xander's words furthered his resolve to make sure his dereliction with Cordelia would not be repeated with Wesley or Gunn, but also reminded him that Xander, Willow, Tara, and the others in Sunnydale were paying just as heavy a price.

How had he managed to be so blind to Xander, to all of them, for so long? The boy bringing Buffy back to life those years ago should have taught him never to count Xander out or disregard his contributions.

Perhaps the only benefit to Cordelia's condition was that it had forced him to examine those around him with new-found eyes. He wouldn't again repeat his past mistakes.

"Faith understands that," Xander continued. "She's fought her way through it and fought her way back from it. She'll be able to help you, and you can keep helping her."

Angel ran his tongue over his teeth. "I understand what you're saying, Xander, but don't you think that's dangerous?" he whispered, sitting down on the bed. "Like forcing two addicts together and hoping they'll keep each other sober?"

The boy shook his head and sat down next to the vampire. "No, because Faith doesn't want to see you fall and you don't want that for her. You bring out the best in each other. No one but you could have helped her, Angel." He paused. "Well, you're really the only one who tried. Buffy and Willow just wanted her back in the coma, and I knew after the last time I tried to help that I wasn't who she needed."

"You're who Cordelia needs. You understand her like I do Faith." Angel said the words slowly as if testing them out, the weight of them not fully realized until they had been uttered.

"I hope so."

Angel turned and critically examined him, startled when he saw Xander furiously blinking.

"What if I'm wrong?" the boy whispered. "What if I'm making a mistake? Again? What if I hurt her more than she's been hurt, worse than I hurt her before?"

Angel wondered when it was that he had convinced himself that he had cornered the market on pain and regret. He wrapped an arm around Xander, hoping the boy wouldn't pull away, which, shockingly, he didn't.

"Do you believe this plan of yours is her best option?"

Xander sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "I think so. It's the only one we could come up with. I just want to keep her alive."

Typical response. Xander wouldn't accept credit for the idea, but was more than willing to assume all of the responsibility if it failed. It was endlessly frustrating and Angel was afforded new insight into how his own team perhaps regarded him.

The bottom line was that Cordelia began improving as soon as Xander had stormed through the hospital doors, and wasn't that all that mattered? He had brought with him an attitude, a powerful witch, and a glimmer of hope, and those were a damn sight more than Angel himself had been able to muster.

He thought again of his words to Tara in the living room. He _did_ trust Xander, and with more than just Cordelia's health; he trusted the boy to do what was right even when it wasn't easy and had every possible change of backfiring.

No, it was no mystery why Buffy kept Xander at her side. In fact, Angel was beginning to realize that perhaps Xander was the hero he and Buffy wished themselves to be.

He was humbled and drew Xander against him. "Then that's all that matters."

Xander laid his head on Angel's shoulder. "Thanks."

After several moments, Angel cleared his throat. "This is weird."

"Totally."

"Want to stop?"

He wrapped his arms around Angel's torso and gently sighed. "Not just yet, okay?"

Angel smiled and said nothing.

* * *

A bug-eyed Cordelia stared into the scrying pool before snorting with utter disbelief.

"Are they having a _Moment_?"

"Aye," Doyle chuckled. "You've managed to accomplish what the Slayer never could."

She took a minute to revel in that knowledge, endlessly pleased with herself, but it soon passed. "How?"

He shrugged. "Buffy unconsciously spurred their rivalry by being with Angel but always keeping Xander dangling on a string."

"You've got that right," she complained. She then frowned. "So what did I do differently?"

"You were their friend first," he replied. "Buffy and Angel loved each other deeply and probably always will, but they were never friends. You saw how they acted when she turned up in L.A. and you heard what happened when he went back to Sunnydale last year."

He put a hand on her shoulder. "Were Xander to have turned up in L.A. before all this happened, would you have been happy to see him?"

"Very," she whispered. She startled, surprised by the immediacy of her answer.

Truthfully, she hadn't given Xander much thought since she had left Sunnydale. Not because she didn't miss him, miss his jokes and his weird clothes and the hero which every so often emerged like a supernova.

His lips.

She shook her head.

She missed her friend.

Xander had been her first best friend and it was that dissolution which had hurt her more than the demise of their romantic relationship. Angel was now her best friend, of course, and she treasured him, but there was a still a vacancy in her heart which only Xander could fill.

Now she realized that one existed for her within him as well, and she was moved. She also suddenly much better understood his relationships with Buffy and Willow.

She sighed. "So what happens now?"

Doyle frowned. "I honestly don't know. As the Oracle told you, Xander is a Champion, one of only five in the world."

His arms hung loosely at his sides, as if he was trying to will from his body the stress his forthcoming words would inspire.

"And as you know, the Powers are loath to interfere directly but they are worried about what your loss would mean to Angel. Xander has also thought of this, as you have seen, which is why he's planned to replace one Champion with another."

Her brow furrowed. "You mean Faith."

"Yeah. The girl's still got a lot of issues, but she now understands that what she did was wrong – and not just because people tell her it's so – and taken responsibility for her actions. She's not doing any good sitting in jail."

Cordelia sighed again, considering his words, which were true, she knew. There was all kinds of nasty stuff in Los Angeles which needed killing, far more than what Angel could handle.

She wondered about that now, about why demons seemed so much more...blatant in L.A. than in Sunnydale, which was, after all, the Hellmouth. Of course, the Hellmouth had magic or whatnot to disguise itself, whereas L.A. was just a big city.

A light dawned for her. A big city with a lot more people to serve as potential meals, and if one or five went missing here or there, who would be the wiser? No, it would be dismissed as drugs or domestic violence or poverty or homophobia, or any number of human frailties in which Evil could blanket itself and remain undetected.

It was so simple, so innocuous, and it was only when she admitted that, that she realized its elegance.

And then there was the fact that Buffy's team was a lot better trained. Not as well as they could be – as they _should_ have been – but they had a Slayer in Buffy and Xander had killed more demons than Willow, Oz, Giles, and Cordelia herself combined. Giles knew a lot more about the wonky stuff than Wesley, simply because he had trained longer with the Council. Gunn had managed well, but he was lucky to still be alive; Alonna hadn't been as fortunate. And Cordelia well knew that Buffy could take Angel in a fight if pressed.

She didn't think herself incapable, knowing she was extraordinary by any measure. She had changed a lot since her high school days and for the better, she thought. Still, she wasn't so self-involved that she didn't realize she had a long way to go. Los Angeles was almost twenty times the size of Sunnydale, which laid only two hours to the south, and relying on only one Champion now seemed kind of stupid.

It made logistical sense for Faith to join Angel's team and help right some of the wrongs she had done. It was probably the best parole ever.

She thought some more about what Doyle had said, what he hadn't said, and then tried to get into Xander's head and discover what the hell was going on up there.

If she did die, if the visions did kill her, what would become of Angel? Could her demise really affect him as drastically as Doyle was implying? Wasn't that the crux of the whole situation? Wesley and Gunn simply didn't understand Angel as she did and they wouldn't be able to help him if something happened to her.

Xander was right and she kind of hated him for that, for thinking of these things when she herself had never considered them. She was also touched that even though she had left Sunnydale behind, that she was gone from his life, she still remained in his heart.

Wait.

Replace a Champion with another? What?

And Doyle had said _five_ Champions.

Five? She counted with her fingers. Buffy, Angel, Xander, and Faith.

"Who's the fifth?"

He smirked. "Who do you think?"

She briefly stared at him, her denial demanding an audience. "Oh, for god's sake! Are you kidding me?"

She spun on her heel and paced restlessly about the sanctuary, cursing whatever names crossed her mind, including those of Angel, Willow, Buffy, Xander, Doyle, most of the agents at William Morris and, for some reason, Santa Claus.

Finally, she swallowed heavily and turned back to Doyle.

"I choose Xander."

He nodded, a smug look on his face.

She rolled her eyes. "So, you said there was someone I'm supposed to help? Who are they and what's their damage?"

Never let it be said that she didn't live up to her own Calling.

Doyle's smile softened. "Come with me."

* * *

"What are they doing in there?" Buffy angrily demanded of no one.

"Probably making out," replied an amused Gunn.

"What!"

Tara burst into giggles.

"Did Angel say something to you about Xander?" Buffy barked at him.

"Yeah. He said that the kid and you were like husband and wife, but without the fun parts."

Tara laughed harder as the other girl turned beet red and muttered something under her breath.

"Buffy?" she suddenly asked. "Did you tell anyone you were coming here? Besides Giles, I mean?"

The Slayer frowned and then flushed more deeply.

"Well," she hesitated, fidgeting, "I didn't exactly _tell_ Giles. I left a note for Willow and I assume she showed it to Giles, who called Angel."

"What about Joyce?"

"Uh..."

"Riley?"

"Oh, shit."

* * *

Riley rang the bell at Joyce's house, hoping to find Buffy visiting her mother as she wasn't picking up her cell phone, no one was at the dorm, and he couldn't get hold of Willow.

He was pretty sure that, combined, all of that meant something was wrong. He thought about dropping by the Magic Box, but that often entailed being drafted into the latest research project; not that he didn't like research per se – unlike Buffy and Xander, he actually enjoyed it, depending on the subject.

He always thought it strange that Maggie had never compiled dossiers on what they were supposed to be fighting. Of course, he had never realized her goal was to collect as many demon body parts as possible. He grimaced as he thought of Forrest. It was still painful to remember him but no longer haunting, and he wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

Right, so there was no time for research at the moment. He thought something was wrong and his inability to find both Buffy and Willow was worrying.

"Hello, Riley," Joyce smiled, opening the door.

He took a brief moment once again to appraise her.

Wow, she really was a beautiful lady. He could imagine Buffy growing to look more and more like her as she grew older. At least, he hoped Buffy would look like her mother; he had yet even to see a picture of her father. She didn't like to talk about Hank at all. As far as Buffy was concerned, Giles was her father, and Riley could appreciate that.

"Hi," he grinned. "I was hoping I might find Buffy here?" His brow furrowed as he watched her smile dim noticeably, though it was apparent she was trying to maintain a good front. He sighed. "What's going on, Joyce?"

Her eyes looked pained but she moved aside and gestured for him to come in. Even though the sun outside was blazing, she was taking no chances, which Riley respected. He crossed the threshold and then stood in the entryway, looking at her patiently and wondering what he was supposed to do next.

"Let's sit," she advised, putting a hand on his shoulder and guiding him to the sofa.

"Is Buffy okay?" he asked, dread now settling in his stomach.

"Well," she began, "that depends on how angry Xander is with her."

The knot in his gut began dissolving as cold anger began swirling within him. "She went to Los Angeles?"

"Yes."

"She's with Angel."

"Probably."

"Aren't you worried?" he demanded.

"Worried that Xander might decapitate her? Yes."

"She went to check up on him."

"Right."

He rubbed a hand over his face. "Oh, shit."

"Right."

* * *

"I want to know right now what's going on," Dawn huffed, crossing her arms over her chest, cocking a hip, and glaring at Giles, knowing the look would have no effect on Anya.

He sighed and returned the gaze, eerily reminded of how Cordelia would storm into the old library and immediately start demanding answers, browbeating all and sundry until she was satisfied, which almost never occurred. Even last night, after learning of her precarious health, it was only at this moment that he was overwhelmed by how much he missed her.

His glance flitted over to Anya and he was warmed. No, she wasn't Cordelia, as much as Willow and Buffy would have claimed otherwise, but she was here and she was honest and _real_ and she was brave when the situation demanded. He truly liked her, though of course he would never tell her. There was no reason to ruin his fun.

Anya had decided that Giles's continuing silence indicated that he didn't know how to answer Dawn's question, so she charged forward.

"You already know that Cordelia has visions sent to her by the Powers That Be. She's Angel's Seer, but human physiology is simply unable to contain the power of such mystical energy constantly bombarding the senses. Cordelia is now in a coma, but her doctors believe she will eventually come out of it. What she'll be like when that happens is anyone's guess. She named Xander as her guardian, so he asked Tara to go with him to L.A. because Willow and Buffy were being evil bitches about Cordelia."

She briefly paused. "Well, not really. There were upset and worried for her; much more so than I, Xander, or Giles would have expected, so perhaps they're not completely heartless. Xander and I came up with a plan to help Cordelia, but I will not tell you what it is, so your whining is ineffective. Spare us both the headache."

Dawn stared wide-eyed at the ex-demon, completely blown away by how much information Anya was able to deliver in the space of two breaths. How did she do that? How could Dawn herself learn? Was there a helpful book? A class? Finally, she shrugged.

"Okay."

She then sat down and began flipping through a musty old tome which promised naked boy etchings.

Giles blinked. "That's it?" His bulging eyes traveled back and forth between Anya and Dawn.

Dawn shrugged again. "Anya explained everything. Xander's taking care of Cordy. I trust him to do it." She then continued to peruse the text.

Damn it, where were the naked boy etchings? The book had _lied_.

The stunned Watcher turned back to Anya, who was busily tallying up the receipts and making notes in the ledger. "I don't understand."

"Understand what?" she chirped. "That Dawn is an intelligent girl perfectly capable of rational thought when she's given an answer to a relevant question?" She clucked her tongue. "You've been hanging around Buffy too long."

Giles stared a bit longer and then wandered away, shaking his head.

Anya and Dawn winked at each other.

* * *

"Where the hell are we?" Cordelia asked, looking around in bewildered awe.

She was standing in the middle of what she perceived to be an underground chamber which, despite is voluminous and apparently endless confines, inspired within her a sense of foreboding and claustrophobia. She also now understood what was truly meant by a deafening silence.

The complete absence of sound was both compelling and unnerving, and she spent a moment trying in vain to attune her ears. There was nothing; not a whisper, not a rustle, not even a click from her heels as she walked across the granite floor of the yawning expanse. She shuddered and fought to stave off a chill.

Spooky.

She concentrated more closely and realized she could not even hear herself breathing. She quickly held up a hand in front of her mouth to ensure that respiration hadn't ceased before laying the hand above her heart. It was beating, so she guessed that was something. But did that really mean anything since she was in a coma and currently visiting the Outer Limits?

Marginally satisfied and all but totally dismayed, she opened up her other senses.

Frankly, the room stunk: a curious mixture of several scents which, separately, would not have been bothersome, but when combined produced a pervasive queasiness. Upturned earth, decaying organic material, and a lingering trace of ash assaulted her.

As she began feeling more and more boxed in, she fought her body's desire to hyperventilate. Unfortunately, the deep gasping breaths which she took only served to ingrain in her further that cloying smell. Her clothes, her hair, even her skin began to reek. Her eyes frantically searched the worn stone walls for an exit but the doorway which had admitted them had disappeared.

Her eyes narrowed, adjusting to the darkness, and she could see that the tomb – she could think of no more appropriate word – was lined with shallow shelves; sitting atop them were hordes of small vials which contained a silvery, luminescent substance. Every few seconds, one of the bottles would flash, though there was no discernible pattern to the pulses.

Several times a pulse would synchronize with her breath or heartbeat. Instead of reassuring her that she was still in the land of the living, however, these instances only served to terrify her further.

"This is the beginning and end of all things," Doyle whispered. "In this room are stored the memories of every being, both human and demon, which has walked this earth."

She gave him an incredulous look and set her jaw.

Okay, she had been a pretty good sport about all of this. She was obviously having some out-of-body experience since she was technically in a coma. She had reunited with her dead friend, they had hashed out some of the problems which had arisen since his death and she was feeling better about things. Xander was looking for a way to help her and she had chosen to believe that he would succeed. She had accepted that she was a Champion for the Powers That Be, even though she didn't really want to be one, because she thought the Powers were idiots. She was now supposed to leave Los Angeles and hook up with someone who needed her help.

Fine! But did Doyle really expect her to buy his latest line?

Apparently so.

She complied as he tugged her further into the chamber, where she immediately noticed a large – well, she didn't know what it was. It kind of looked like a bowl, and then a fountain, and then a tabernacle. Her mind just couldn't decide. It was pretty impressive, though, since it was made of gold and was encrusted with all kinds of funky jewels. Damn, just one of those could put her in the black for the next fifty years. But what the hell was it?

"A Pensieve," he answered. "The first. Created millennia ago by the Shadowmen who imbued a young African girl with a demon, transforming her into the First Slayer."

"Buffy's a _demon_?" she screeched.

She clapped her hands over her ears as her words echoed throughout the room and were reflected back at her like ricocheting bullets.

"Use your inside voice," he chided.

Cordelia glared at him before punching him in the gut, which made her feel a lot better.

As he wheezed, she considered his words. The First Slayer was made from a demon? Well, she had never really thought about it before, but she supposed it made sense. After all, where else would all that power come from? How was it strong enough to survive generation after generation? The Slayer Line must have some sense of intelligence, or sentience, if it could guide itself to its next host without fail.

She acknowledged that she was also experiencing a crushing disappointment. She had naively convinced herself that it had been the Powers themselves who had created the Slayer Line, in order to help humanity battle the demons which plagued the world. And while humans had multiplied in number and geography, forcing most of the demons underground save for the Hellmouth and larger metropolitan areas in which they could operate unnoticed, Cordelia now understood that the Powers were uninterested in the plight of humanity.

"It's all about balance," she angrily muttered.

"Aye," Doyle said sadly, in a low voice. "Humans needed a warrior, a Champion with the strength to drive back the demons before they could lay waste to the earth."

"How long has there been a Slayer?"

Instead of answering, he walked over to a shelf and plucked from it one of the mysterious vials.

"This," he began, "contains all of her memories. Of the girl she had been before her family sacrificed her to the Shadowmen; of her terror as she was chained and forced to bear the assault of the demon which became one with her; of the countless battles with species which no longer exist in your world; and the final one which claimed her life."

Cordelia stared at the swirling liquid in the glass vial, but words had fled. She watched as Doyle gently put it back in place. "Do I have one?"

"Aye. As do I and Angel and Xander, and all of those we have loved and lost."

"Jenny and Kendra, too?"

"Everyone."

The multitude of what he was imparting to her finally swelled and crashed over her body. She looked around again, overwhelmed by even the suggestion that the room in which she was standing was a virtual library of lives. It was more than she could deal with, so she forced herself to focus.

"What's the point? Why am I here?"

"Because if you are to help the sixth Champion, you need to understand him. You need to experience life from his point of view so that you do not repeat the mistakes of others who were to have helped him."

"Him? Wait, there are six Champions now?"

"A boy," Doyle nodded. "He's about to turn sixteen."

"So young," she whispered.

"You're not much older," he gently snickered, before quickly sobering, "and he has never been allowed to be young. Just as you were not, as Buffy was not, as Faith never was. It is even worse for this lad; his childhood died while he was still a babe."

"What's his name?"

"Harry Potter."

* * *

"Thank you for calling the Magic Box! We value your patronage and accept all currency!"

"Hey, baby."

She ignored the tiredness is his voice. "Is Buffy dead?"

"It was touch and go for a while, I'm not gonna lie."

"So what happened?" She hoped she hadn't sounded too eager.

"Well, Tara got bored so she spelled us so that we couldn't move or speak."

She cackled. "Yeah, I know that much. Tell her when this is all over, I'm treating her to few rounds at the Bronze. It's worth the small infringement upon my growing assets."

"Don't I get drinks?"

"You get something even better," she purred.

He squeaked. "Okay!"

"So what's up?"

"Can you ditch the shop and get up here?"

"Already? You convinced her?"

"Once she actually agreed to listen, she was very supportive."

"I'm shocked." And she truly was.

"Look," he sighed, "she went about it all wrong, but her intentions were true. She was worried about Angel and about me, and even about Cordy. She doesn't always think before she acts but, well, neither do I. Most of us don't."

"That's true," she grudgingly admitted. "So she's going to help?"

"She is."

"Wow."

"So. Any thoughts about how we're going to do this?"

"A few. Let me gather what I need, make my excuses, and I'll be on my way. I can get there in about three hours." She paused. "This is not going to go over well with Willow."

"If you think she can handle it, bring her."

"I don't want to have to talk to her."

"An, you need to stop this. You know how much Buff and Will mean to me, and that's not going to change. I'm not asking you to be their best friend. I'm not even asking you to like them. What I'm asking is that you respect that they're _my_ best friends."

"Even though they frequently forget that fact when it comes to you?"

"And that's my problem and I'll deal with it. I appreciate how much you love me and want to defend me, but I can't question their judgment if I don't allow them to do the same with mine."

"When did you start making sense?"

"When I was fortunate enough to have an extremely smart, incredibly sexy, and very kind ex-demon ask me to the Prom."

"I hate when you do that."

"Do what? Pay you compliments?"

"Of course not! You should do that all the time!" She sighed. "I just hate being reminded that losing that damn necklace was the best thing to have happened to me in over a thousand years."

* * *

"Are you sure telling Anya to bring Will was a good idea?" Buffy fretted.

She was also truly touched by how Xander had just gone to bat for her and Willow with Anya. She wondered how many times he had done that. She wondered how many times she and Willow had hurt him with their constant disparagement of the woman he so obviously loved.

Xander shrugged. "More witchiness couldn't hurt. Sure, she'll probably be angry..."

She glared at him.

"Okay, she'll be furious, but we can't leave her out of this. It's going to affect all of us and we need to deal. Look, whether Willow likes it or not, Faith is back. And, frankly, if you and I can handle it after all Faith did to us, then Willow needs to suck it up and get on board."

Buffy chewed her lips while stewing on his words. He was right, she knew, but that wasn't going to make it any easier. It was one thing for all of them to try and help Cordelia, but helping Faith in the process? Willow would probably go nuts and that was understandable. After all, Faith had hurt her, too. Granted, not to the extent to which she had hurt Xander and Buffy herself, but trespasses against her friends infuriated Willow far more than slights against herself. She looked again at Xander and could tell similar thoughts were swirling around in his head.

"Leave Willow to me," Tara said.

* * *

"What's going on?" Willow demanded as she threw open Anya's car door and scampered inside. "Since when did you start getting all cryptic?"

"Buckle up, shut up, and settle in for a nice drive," Anya glared. "We're picking up Riley and heading to L.A."

* * *

Cordelia was puzzled as she watched Doyle uncap a vial and pour its silvery contents into the basin.

Her eyes widened slightly as she saw the incandescent liquid briefly flare, as if affronted that it had been disturbed.

How in the name of Prada did he expect her to believe that this stuff was someone's memories?

The problem was that she _did_ believe it and a sliver of perversion shot up her spine.

What was she supposed to do? Casually view the memories of this boy, this Harry Potter person, so she could learn everything about him – his thoughts and feelings and fears, all of his secrets, his joy and pain – so she could, what, help him?

It was ghoulish and voyeuristic.

She valued her privacy and believed the privacy of others should be respected. Unless violating it amused her. Or if someone was in danger or it affected her.

Two out of three. Damn.

Still, she was pissed off and growing angrier by the second. Was this how the Powers got their kicks? They would come into this room and select someone's life at random and then kick back to scan the highlights? What the hell was this? _The Truman Show?_ Had they done this with her memories? Had someone else? Had Doyle?

She felt violated.

"It's not like that," Doyle quietly said.

Her eyes flashed. "Have you added mind-reading to your bag of tricks since you walked into the big white light?"

He blinked and then sighed. "Princess, I have never viewed your memories. I wouldn't do that to you and you know that."

Did she? She was unsure. How well had she really known him when he lived, and how much had he changed since his death? How did she know she wasn't being punked? And he hadn't answered her question.

"You know everything about me that matters."

She raised a brow. "And you can say the same about me?"

"Yes."

She set her jaw and looked away. After a moment, she nodded. "Okay, but I don't want to do this. It's not right."

"Cordelia." When she ignored him, he gentled his voice. "Cordy, look at me. _Please_."

Grudgingly, she did.

"What's not right is what's been done to this boy. The Powers have chosen you to help him because they believe you're the most qualified." He held up a hand. "And before you ask, I don't know how they arrived at that conclusion. Does it really matter? Are you refusing to help him?"

She curled a lip. "I didn't say that."

"Then how do you expect to do it if you know nothing about him? There isn't time just to drop you into his world and let you fly blind, trying to find your way." He cocked his head. "Weren't you always the one demanding answers from Angel before he rushed to action? How can you help Harry if you don't know what you're up against?"

Her anger smoldered. How _dare_ he manipulate her with her own logic! That was what she did to other people!

She then deflated.

"It's not the best way," he conceded, "but it's the only way we have that will maximize your efforts."

She bit her lip and waved a hand at the Pensieve. "So how does this thing work?"

He suppressed a sigh of relief as well as a smug grin. "You'll be able to review the key events of Harry's life as he himself saw them."

She rolled her eyes. "You can stop saying his name; you don't need to humanize him for me. I'm not some serial killer." She laced her fingers together to quell the nervous energy flitting through them. "What am I supposed to be looking for?"

"Look at the people closest to him, both good and bad. Study how he reacts to them, both mentally and physically."

Her gaze narrowed. "Why do I think this has less to do with Harry and everything to do with the dorks surrounding him?"

"Because you're smart."

* * *

Willow only half-listened as Anya yammered into her cell phone, explaining to Joyce that Dawn was with Giles, who would be keeping the girl with him for the night so Joyce herself could rest and that she was taking Willow and Riley to Los Angeles to help Xander.

Since when were Anya and Joyce so chummy, anyway, and why did that bother her? Whatever.

From what she could deduce, Willow gathered it had been Xander himself who had asked Anya to come, which suggested that he was still running the show despite the presence of Buffy and Angel. She wasn't sure if that was good or bad; it was good for Xander and therefore good for Cordelia, but Buffy and Angel were two of the most headstrong people…or girl and vampire…she knew. She just hoped there weren't any broken bones or noses.

Anya disconnected after once again reminding Joyce to lie down and take it easy and began humming tunelessly along with the radio.

"How is she?"

"Tired. Her head hurts."

"It's getting worse."

"Yes."

Anya refrained from voicing her suspicions that Joyce most likely had a brain tumor. She watched enough Discovery Health Channel to know these things, or suspect them, at least. She wasn't going to say anything to the others, because she knew her concerns would be met either derision, denial, or panic – none of which were conducive to helping Joyce.

So she would hold her tongue and do what she could to help, hoping it would be enough until the idiot doctors realized what was going on. Maybe there were some doctors in L.A. she could call, get a referral to a specialist or find out about some new x-ray. Something had to be done and she decided it was up to her to do it.

Anya knew the others loved Joyce, but nothing would be accomplished by standing around and hoping for the best.

"Why am I here?" Willow suddenly demanded, unable to consider any longer the precarious state of Joyce's health.

Anya shrugged. "I'm going to meet Xander and he asked me to bring you."

The words, if not their bearer, suffused Willow with warmth. "And Riley?"

Another shrug. "Riley was my idea. I'm sure he's feeling very frustrated and probably worthless since Buffy didn't even bother to tell him she was going to L.A."

Willow groaned. "Where Angel is."

"Exactly. And people tell me _I'm_ insensitive." Anya shook her head in confusion. "Anyway, Riley is a good friend to Xander, and Xander needs all the support he can get right now. Besides, I think it would be good for Riley to be reminded that he's our friend too, not just Buffy's boyfriend."

Willow felt the heat rise in her cheeks, startled by Anya's thoughtfulness and embarrassed at the unspoken and unintended condemnation she insisted upon reading into the girl's words.

The arguments of Buffy and Giles both came rushing back at her, and while she had known that she often acted like a sulky, spoiled brat toward Anya, it was only now that she was able to accept that judgment. She debated what to do, what to say, how to phrase an apology that wouldn't sound forced or perfunctory or melodramatic, but before she could utter a word, Anya pulled to a stop before Lowell House where Riley was waiting at the curb.

Willow swallowed a sigh as he stowed his gear in the trunk and climbed into the backseat.

"Hey."

"Hiya, Riley," Willow grinned, putting her best face forward.

Anya glanced over her shoulder. "You have a right to be angry, so if you want to yell, feel free. Giles yelled at us this morning. It was very sexy."

Riley stared at her, blinked, and finally released a peal of vaguely hysterical laughter.

"If it makes you feel any better," Anya continued, "Tara got bored with Buffy and Xander shouting at each other, so she froze and silenced them so she could yell at both of them about their stupidity without being interrupted. Oh, she also told Angel that if he tried anything funny, she would make sure he burst into song at inappropriate moments."

She then turned to Willow. "Tara would have made an excellent vengeance demon. You're very lucky to have her for a girlfriend."

Anya didn't understand what was so funny, but she was pleased by Willow and Riley's snorts of wheezed laughter, which led them to miss completely the idiotic pedestrian with whom she almost collided because the moron didn't know enough not to step off the curb when a car was doing forty-five in a ten mile per hour zone.

She sighed.

Humans.

She had truly believed the Black Death would wipe them out, but alas.

Still, many millions had died in extremely painful and comedic ways!

Ah, memories.

She brightened. This must be what Xander meant when he told her to look always for the silver lining. She had a very smart boyfriend.

With a very large penis.

* * *

Had she known beforehand that using a Pensieve required slamming her face into a pool of liquid memories, Cordelia would have refused. Supernatural facials were not on her list of things to try, thanks ever so, but luckily she had the presence of mind to reach up behind her, grab the back of Doyle's head, and drag him in with her.

She was the first to scramble to her feet, disoriented by the lack of not only light, but of all sensory information. There was not a sound, nor anything which she could grasp to steady herself. She was surprised to find that she was completely dry, figuring she'd have Pensieve juice on her. Some magic thing, she supposed. Weird.

And where was she? If these were Harry's memories, he desperately needed a life. Unless he was comatose, in which case she could unfortunately relate. And when she finally woke up, if she discovered that her perfect body had been touched inappropriately by any geeky doctors or hairy orderlies, she would soon be named the director of Cedars-Sinai.

"What'd you do that for?" Doyle squawked, trying and failing for indignation.

She paused from looking around the pitch blackness of wherever the hell she was, and sneered. "Well, Lassie, you're supposed to be my guide, right? So guide me."

He was glad she couldn't see his grin. Christ, he had missed her.

* * *

"_Now_ will you tell us what's going on?" asked an exasperated Willow at the same time a panicked Riley trilled, "Are you sure you wouldn't like me to drive?"

Anya decided to answer his question first, prefacing her response by throwing her hands into the air and causing him to blanch. "I'm perfectly capable of maneuvering this vehicle! I have not imbibed any alcohol nor taken any medication which precludes me from operating heavy machinery!"

Her statements did little to quell his anxiety. Had she been drunk, perhaps then her driving would have made sense. Still, she was better behind the wheel than Buffy, which he supposed had to count for something. But not much.

"What's happening!" Willow shrieked.

Anya shrugged. "I guess now is as good a time as any. Just remember that if you lose your cool and start floating things, I might get distracted and kill us all."

"Please Willow!" Riley begged.

The redhead rolled her eyes. "Whatever. Is Cordy okay?"

"You really care?" Anya asked, arching a brow.

"I don't want her dead, Anya." She sighed. "Look, Buffy pretty much tore me a new one last night about Cordy and she made a lot of sense." She hesitated. "Not that I wanted to admit then, or even now," she muttered, the words bitter on her tongue. She squared her shoulders and forced a breath. "But I know it's time I let some stuff go. I...I hurt Cordy badly, probably worse than she ever hurt me."

"You mean the time when you used magic on Xander to get him to kiss you in that old factory and then Cordelia and Oz came in and saw you making out on that bed and then Cordelia fell through the floor and had a steel bar shoved through her stomach?"

Willow's eyes widened.

"Oh, please. You think I couldn't figure it out?"

"So Buffy was right," Riley quietly said.

"Buffy knows?" Willow shrieked.

"Probably Tara, too," Anya interjected. "I'm sure she asked Xander what was up between you and Cordelia, and he would have told her. She would have put it together. Tara's a smart one." She eyed Willow. "Despite some evidence to the contrary."

"Does Xander know?" the witch whispered.

"I don't know. I'm not going to tell him."

"You're not?" both Willow and Riley demanded.

"If Cordelia hasn't, why would I? It's not my business."

"Oh god," Willow gasped.

"It serves no purpose and Xander has enough to worry about."

Riley furrowed his brow. "Why am I here?"

"Because you're a good friend to Xander and he needs you right now. It's regrettable that you're not orgasm friends, but like I told Willow, he still could use your support."

He felt the heat rise in his face and dropped his eyes to the floor.

"Besides," she continued, "I figured you'll probably yell at Buffy for running off and getting in the way, and that will amuse me."

Willow bit her lip to keep from laughing; she, too, wanted to witness that exchange.

"There's something you should know," Anya said to Willow, rather begrudgingly. "What happened in the factory wasn't your fault. Not entirely. The ingredients of the spell were unstable and you were under their influence just as much as Xander."

Willow choked out a sob.

Anya's impatience grew. "Why are you so upset? Did you not just hear me tell you that you were not to blame? You were the only the instrument."

Willow's brow furrowed.

"That implies someone was playing her," Riley frowned.

"Because they were," Anya answered, "and no, I don't know who. All I know is that I was sent to hover in the Lower Realms and wait for Cordelia to make her wish."

"But…" Willow rasped, "but that means…"

"Yeah," Anya snapped. "Spike returning to town and kidnapping you? You and Xander in the Love Shack? Cordelia's breaking up with him? Orchestrated." She scowled as more incongruous pieces slammed themselves together. "So was her moving to Los Angeles, hooking up with Angel, and getting those stupid visions. Someone or something set her up, and used you to do it."

Several emotions flitted through Willow's mind at the pronouncement, from confusion to hurt to foolishness and sadness; she finally settled on rage.

"What the _fuck_?"

* * *

"I know you want to know," Xander sighed, "and I can't blame you. I can't expect you to commit to something when you don't have any idea what's going on." He paused. "What I am asking is that you trust me enough to know I wouldn't put you in danger if it wasn't necessary, and that I'll do everything I can to make sure the danger is minimal."

"I do trust you," Buffy insisted, "but it's a little hard not to worry. I'm not saying you're not smart or not, not _capable_, but this is going to impact all of us long-term." At his distracted nod, she pressed forward. "So what's the plan? You've been checking your watch every five minutes. We already know Anya's on her way, so what's going on?"

"You're waiting for someone," Angel quietly guessed.

Xander startled. "I am."

"It's not Anya."

"Not just her, no."

Angel, Buffy, and Gunn eyed one another.

"Look," Gunn said slowly after a minute, "I'm not trying to step on your toes here, okay? You're helping Barbie and I'm down with that, but it's pretty damn obvious you're planning to use us in whatever scheme you've cooked up." He cocked his head. "Doesn't it make sense to make sure we know what we're doing before we actually, you know, do it?"

Xander nodded. "It does, and I have every intention of telling you once she gets here."

"She?" Buffy asked, jumping on the clue. "She who?"

He frowned, chewing on his lip. "I don't really know her. She wasn't my idea, but she's a good one. Once she gets here, I'll explain everything."

"You're waiting for someone you don't know?" Buffy repeated.

He nodded.

"Can you at least tell us if this person is coming to help Faith or Cordelia?" asked an exasperated Angel.

Xander grinned. "Both."

The vampire gnashed his teeth, irritated by how easily he had walked right into that.

Buffy mentally ran through the list of potential guests: Anya was bringing Willow and Xander would never remove Dawn without telling her. Well, that made sense, since he admitted this person, whoever she was, was unknown to him. But still, Mystery Date must have some clue about Hellmouthy things, which somewhat narrowed the field. She glanced at Angel and could see he was also frustrated.

"Okay," Gunn sighed. "I guess you think you know what you're doing."

"I never know what I'm doing," Xander blithely chirped. "That's half the fun! Or panic."

If the doorbell didn't ring in the next thirty seconds, Gunn was going to beat the boy into unconsciousness.

* * *

It was rare for Cordelia to have moments of silence though she indulged on occasion, for she knew silence could at times be the most powerful weapon, undermining the confidence of those speaking.

As Doyle led her through Harry's first memory, however, her silence indicated respect and compassion for the baby who had witnessed his mother's murder.

She watched Lily Evans Potter collapse before her only child after pleading for his life, her last breath a vow of eternal love for her son. Cordelia was awed and humbled and, for a brief moment she longed for her own mother. She then remembered that Katherine Chase was absent by choice, not circumstance, and she doubted her mother would ever be as selfless as Lily Potter or Joyce Summers.

"Can we pause this or something?" she quietly asked Doyle.

He nodded and the scene stilled.

Cordelia walked over to Voldemort and examined his face as she would a specimen mounted on a slide beneath a microscope. She looked into his eyes and knew that what was looking back, though not at her, was purely and simply evil.

He was insane, of that she had no doubt. He was little more than the psychopaths which ran amok in her own world. The only difference which she could discern was that he used a wand rather than a gun or knife.

And what was up with the wand, anyway? She had thought magic wands were fairy tales. Willow didn't use one and Ms. Calendar hadn't needed one. Whatever. She guessed that was something about which she would need to interrogate Doyle.

She tilted her head and looked more closely at Voldemort – and what a stupid name that was – sensing that within his madness laid the cold and calculating mind of a tyrant. He had a specific agenda, but its pursuit had rendered him psychotic. Nothing less could explain the casual murder of two people trying to protect their offspring, nor the delight he experienced in perpetrating it. She understood everything she needed to know about him.

She turned and studied Harry, standing on wobbly legs in his crib, his little fists curled around the rails, his wild black hair standing in tufts as frozen tears stained his face. She peered at the fresh scar bleeding down into a bright green eye and a rage far beyond anything she had ever experienced began to consume her. But it didn't burn, this wrath; it was ice cold.

It was disgusting, all of it. It was obscene.

"Baptism by blood," Doyle whispered.

"All of this over a prophecy," she demurred. "Doesn't this dumbass know that prophecy doesn't mean shit? That it changes as circumstances change?" Hadn't the Oracle told her that Xander refuted prophecy by saving Buffy, thus throwing the world out of balance?

"Aye," he nodded. "Voldemort himself altered the prophecy by coming here this night."

"How?"

"There was a baby born the day before Harry who also fit the parameters of the prophecy, but Voldemort chose Harry as the one most likely to kill him."

She'd unpack that later. "Who was the other baby?"

"His name is Neville Longbottom. He's a classmate of Harry's."

Cordelia filed that tidbit for future reference. She swallowed heavily, trying to wash away the bile which had crept up the back of her throat.

"What's next?"

* * *

Xander painfully tugged on his ear before sliding his eyes toward Tara, who shrugged. She'd play this however he wanted.

"I can't give you specifics," he said slowly to the others, "not yet. But I can give you a general idea."

"Works for me," Gunn said.

Angel and Buffy sighed with relief and nodded.

Seven minutes later, they wish they had never browbeaten him. They, along with Gunn, were slack-jawed, staring at Xander with incredulity as he finished outlining his plan to break Faith out of prison.

"Are you joking?" Gunn finally asked, breaking the pall of silence which had descended over them all.

"Nope."

Buffy continued to roll over his words, unable to see how he could possibly expect to pull this off, while Angel looked at him with blatant respect and perhaps a trace of fear. He turned to Tara.

"Are you sure you can do this?"

She nodded. "Having Willow here will help. Our magic is complementary and I'll be able to draw power from her if necessary." She shrugged. "It's like Xander said: the more witchiness, the better."

He exhaled and nodded. "Do you have everything you need?"

She frowned. "Actually, I'd feel better if I stocked up on some supplies. I brought my own, but I might need more, and I don't know if Willow is bringing anything with her."

"But Anya is," Xander interrupted. He beamed. "It's very helpful to have a girlfriend who manages a magic shop."

Tara smirked. "Especially one who's an ex-vengeance demon?"

He shrugged. "Not really, but especially one who's a former witch." At the collective stare, he scowled. "What? How do you _think_ Anya was able to summon D'Hoffryn twelve centuries ago?"

"Twelve centuries!" barked a flabbergasted Gunn.

Buffy's mouth fell open. "I…well. I mean…huh."

"Anya was a witch," Tara breathed. "Then that's how she…"

"Stop!" he shouted, quickly standing up.

Her eyes widened and she clapped a hand over her mouth. Immediately, Buffy and Angel leaned forward, their eyes narrowed.

"What were you going to say, Tara?" Angel pressed.

"Nothing," the witch replied, now blushing.

"Since when did you start taking orders from Xander?" Buffy demanded.

"Since someone's life was at stake," Tara snapped back. "Which is, oh, every night of our lives? He's been doing this longer than me, and almost as long as you. This is his show and you said you'd let him run it his way, but whenever he gives you an inch, you take a mile."

Buffy dropped her eyes.

"I think we already covered that we're all upset and nervous," Angel interceded.

"And I already told you about your off-Broadway debut," Tara retorted.

"Thanks, but it's okay, Tara," Xander said earnestly. "I already talked about this with Anya. I can't question their judgment if I don't give them the same courtesy." He shrugged and turned to the others. "This is why I didn't want to tell you anything until it was all in place, because there's stuff I can't explain right now."

He held up a hand to ward off the oncoming interruptions. "All I ask is that you wait till everyone arrives and I lay it all out for you, then I'll answer every question you've got, I promise. Hopefully you'll be in this with me, but if you decide you don't want to – for whatever reason – I'll respect your decision. And then have Tara cast a spell to make you forget everything I told you."

They stared at him for a few seconds.

"I don't know about you, boss," Gunn finally said, "but that sounds fair to me."

"It does," Buffy nodded, not caring what Angel thought. "We'll wait and let Xander explain. It's the least we can do. Cordy chose Xander and she needs us." It was the end of the discussion as far as she was concerned.

Angel sighed and nodded. He suddenly cocked his head. "A car just pulled up outside."

"It's probably Anya and Willow," Tara said.

He paused, straining to listen, and then shook his head. "There's only one heartbeat."

He felt Buffy tense and reach behind reflexively to withdraw her stake. Like her, he trusted Xander as far as Cordelia's welfare was concerned, but he had an uneasy feeling about this surprise visitor, especially since Xander himself admitted he didn't know the person.

Not to mention that the boy had a knack for attracting female demons. He frowned, wondering why he hadn't asked the obvious: if Xander hadn't met this woman, why had he involved her? How had he known to involve her at all? Who was she?

Xander stood and crossed over to the foyer, smoothing down his hair and rolling his shoulders. Before the guest could knock, he opened the door and was pleased to note she wasn't surprised he had done so.

He offered his most charming grin, made all the brighter by how beautiful she was. A mass of blond curls tumbled down her shoulders, framing a stunning oval face which resembled that of a forties screen siren. High cheekbones, wide blue eyes, flawless creamy skin, and a full mouth completed the picture.

His own mouth went dry as heat began creeping up his neck and he felt like a complete idiot. He was an adult! Kind of. And he had a girlfriend! A beautiful girlfriend whom he loved. But, damn, this woman was gorgeous.

"Xander Harris?"

He nodded, his mouth falling open as he heard Angel gasp and rise to his feet.

She smiled and extended her hand. "Kate Lockley."

* * *

Cordelia was _done_.

It had been disturbing enough viewing Harry's memory of the death of his mother, but these people, these Dursleys, infuriated her far beyond that of anyone she had ever before encountered, including Voldemort, Willow, Harmony, her own parents, and any Big Bad she had faced. If the credits on this production didn't start rolling soon, she was going to find a way to insert herself into these memories just so she could beat these creeps with a waffle iron at her leisure.

And she was going to start with that sadistic little shit, Dudley. Not that he was little in any sense of the word. What a whale! Someone needed to harpoon him, and soon.

She understood that some people were heavy by nature, but this brat was enormously fat by choice and laziness. He was also ungrateful, obnoxious, cruel, and retarded, in the sense that he was proud of his aggressive ignorance.

She watched as he bullied Harry from the time each were old enough to walk and her anger grew. Oh, he was cocky as he beat on a boy much smaller and half his weight, but she was sure that if someone ever knocked him upside his head, he'd snivel like a bitch and bleed butter. Well, she would just have to make sure that happened, wouldn't she? And she'd be there to witness it and take pictures.

The father Vernon had molded his son in his own revolting image, which certainly said a lot about the man's lack of intelligence. He was overweight, overbearing, ugly, ill mannered, and purposefully dense. The way he treated Harry was an abomination, and there were several instances in which Cordelia refused to watch the memories through which Doyle guided her.

She didn't know Harry, hadn't yet seen him as anything other than a baby or a small child, but there were some things she knew he wouldn't want her to see and she respected that.

The majority of her vitriol was reserved for Petunia Dursley, who Cordelia thought was the worst of the lot. The woman's words against Harry inflicted more damage than the fists of her husband or son. Thin to the point of malnourishment, perhaps because her husband and son ate everything with a calorie, Petunia looked nothing like her namesake or her sister. At the root of her being, she was driven by jealousy, which Cordelia found truly pathetic.

Petunia had envied Lily for the latter's beauty and power. She could do nothing about her appearance, so she had sublimated all of her anger and resentment, allowing it to twist and fester until she discovered that Lily was a witch. Petunia, furious that Lily had become even more gilded, raged to all and sundry that magic and therefore her sister was unnatural.

When Lily was killed, Petunia's regret and lack of closure were repressed further and fueled her rage against the magic which had taken her sister from her, rage which she spewed at Lily's child. It was petty and spiteful, not to mention absurd.

Cordelia understood envy, both as its instrument and target, but even at her most shallow, she had never been such a miserable bitch. What made Petunia so viciously poisonous was her sense of entitlement, expressed as unearned righteous indignation. She feared what she didn't understand, which in some circumstances could have been excused, but rather than facing her fears and educating herself, she sought to control and punish anything which caused her to question her very narrow worldview.

Petunia was so insecure about her sister and nephew, so terrified that magic was a legacy which she might unwittingly pass on to her own child, she not only authorized but encouraged Vernon and Dudley's abuse of Harry. She even abetted it with neglect more cruel than any fist could ever be. She overcompensated with her own child, trying to ensure that she would never lose him as she had her sister by spoiling him rotten and instilling within him perverse gluttony, all the while appalled by her nephew because she refused to see him as anything other than a wizard.

Cordelia was already overwhelmed with so much information and wasn't yet ready to digest what she had learned about Harry's childhood and family. She knew all she needed to know about this part of his life and was certain some images would keep her up at night. She understood Good and Evil, as unwelcome as their presence in her life were, but she would never understand – nor did she wish to – how humans sometimes behaved more atrociously than demons.

The Dursleys would be made to pay; she would make sure of it.

Cordelia had held her tongue through most of the memories, preferring instead to watch and absorb, to examine more closely when something confused or troubled her, but now she had one question which demanded an answer. She turned to Doyle.

"Why was Harry given to them?"

Doyle looked askance at Vernon Dursley, who was frozen in time as he kicked his nephew into the cupboard under the stairs. "That has to do with a man named Albus Dumbledore."

She nodded. "I've seen enough. I know the prophecy and I know how Harry was raised. I want to see this Dumbledore person and what Harry's life is like now."

He gave her a sad smile. "You always were a quick study."

"I'm Cordelia Chase."

* * *

"Kate?" whispered a confused Angel.

Xander moved to the side to allow Kate entrance to the apartment. She moved past him, offering a nod of approval at the precaution; she knew all too well about issuing and denying invitations.

"Hello, Angel," she said, stopping a few feet in front of him, making sure to keep her voice even.

This was already proving more awkward than she had anticipated, which she never would have believed possible. Despite the past several months and the distance they afforded, she was still unable to qualify her feelings for him, and whenever she attempted to examine them, she felt foolish and embarrassed.

"What are you doing here?"

She raised a brow. "Good to see you too."

Of course it was good to see her. He never thought he would have another opportunity. She hadn't even said goodbye before leaving Los Angeles, and though he had attempted to contact her at her new precinct, she either hadn't received his message or had chosen to ignore it. Most likely the latter.

"I…I thought you were in New York."

"I was," she nodded, "but when Xander called me about Cordelia, I caught the next flight out." She paused and shifted her stance. "So how are you?"

He blinked and said nothing, trying to process the latest developments.

She waited for a moment, and then turned to the others. "You must be Buffy," she smiled, holding out her hand. "I'm Kate Lockley, NYPD. I've heard a lot about you from both Xander and Angel. All good things, I promise."

Buffy, who had taken the proffered hand, stopped shaking it. "You're the detective, the one who used to work with Angel."

"I wouldn't say we worked together, but our cases sometimes overlapped. It was more a sharing of information."

Buffy nodded, unsure of how to respond. She sensed major weirdness between this woman and Angel and didn't wish to add to it, refusing to get sucked back in to Angel's world. She suddenly missed Riley, wishing she had asked him to come with her and knowing she would pay later for that oversight.

"Well, it's nice to meet you." Really, what else was she supposed to say? She wanted to demand why the woman was there, but knew Xander would get pissed off.

As if sensing her confusion, Xander rushed over and guided Kate toward Tara. "This is Tara Maclay, witch extraordinaire."

Tara blushed and mumbled her pleasantries to Kate, still wary of strangers.

"Witch, huh?" Kate said. She shook her head and smiled. "Sorry, I'm still getting used to the idea of witches and vampires."

"Join the club," Buffy and Xander said. Tara laughed and nodded.

"And this is…" Xander began.

"Charles Gunn," Kate beamed, thrusting forward her hand.

He grinned as his own hand swallowed hers. "Lady Kate! How the hell you been, girl?"

"You two know each other?" asked a startled Angel.

"We ran into each other on occasion," Kate replied, winking at Gunn.

"Yeah," he cackled. "She looked out for me no matter how many times I told her to fuck off, usually when I was in handcuffs. Made sure I showed up at school, too. This chick was on my ass like white on rice."

"In your dreams," she snapped back.

"White on rice?" Buffy repeated.

"So how did you get involved in all of this, Charlie?" Kate asked.

"Charlie?" Angel repeated.

"Long story," Gunn said, "but all that stuff I said you'd never understand?" He shook his head. "I should have told you. Guess I underestimated you." He bit his lip. "Well, not you so much as myself as far as all this shit is concerned."

She sighed. "Well, I didn't learn about it by choice, let me tell you. Sometimes I think I'd be better off not knowing, but then I run into cases in which someone has been drained or has gone missing and at least I know enough to try and give some comfort to the families left behind."

He nodded tightly.

"And how's Alonna?"

On reflex, he dropped her hand and lowered his eyes.

Her own filled. "Oh, no," she whispered and threw her arms around him. "Oh, Charlie, I'm so sorry." She held him a while, his head lowered and face buried in her neck. "What happened?" she demanded, anger surging within her. "Did they catch the perp? Who worked the case?"

"It wasn't like that," he said gruffly. "Vamps got her."

She closed her eyes and hissed. "Fuck. Christ, Charlie, you should have called."

"I did! I tried getting in touch when I heard about your dad." He winced at her flinch. "They told me you had transferred to New York," he softly finished.

"They have phones in New York," she scolded, her eyes wet.

"Yeah," he mumbled, "well, the phone works both ways, baby girl. And things happened pretty quickly. Before I knew it, Alonna was gone and I got swept up into all Angel's drama."

"I have drama?" Angel demanded.

Kate pulled back. "You mean you work for him?"

He snorted. "If you're asking if I'm on Monster Patrol twenty-four seven, then yeah, but if you're asking if I got a dental plan, get serious."

She snorted.

"Hey!" Angel whined. He was ignored however.

"And Alonna?"

"Boss dusted the vamp who got her."

She nodded. "He got the ones who killed my father."

Gunn inhaled sharply, his eyes widening before he looked away and toed at the ground. He wished he had known; he should have tried harder to track her down. Fuck. "I'm sorry, Kate. Was it because…did they…?" he trailed off.

"It wasn't his fault," Kate was quick to say, "but, yes, they targeted him because of my relationship with Angel, because I was getting too close to things and was attracting the attention of people with more power than myself."

She exhaled through her nose, purposefully not looking at the vampire.

"I blamed him at first because it was easy. Easier than admitting that I needed help. Easier than trusting Angel when I knew I should have." She set her jaw. "It got bad, Charlie. I became obsessed, working against Angel rather than with him, taking chances and putting myself and other people in danger."

Gunn swallowed heavily, knowing how easily he could have fallen into the same trap.

"I'm glad you caught on quicker than I did," she continued, now looking at the floor. "I'm glad you didn't run away with your tail tucked between your legs."

"Aw, now that don't…"

"No," she held up a hand. "That's exactly what I did, but I needed the distance, the clarity it afforded me."

"Has it helped?"

"Some. Being back here isn't easy, but nothing worthwhile ever is. I don't hold any grudges against Angel and if Xander believes I can help Cordelia, then I'll do everything I can."

Angel couldn't take any more, and discreetly moved away. He was surprised to realize he had moved behind Xander, as if the boy was a shield.

"I, uh," Gunn said thickly, "I staked her myself," he rasped. "Alonna. I had to. She was my sister," he added rather defensively. "I couldn't let her go on like that, soul or not."

Buffy and Tara caught each other's eye before they glanced at Angel, who appeared defeated.

"I can't even imagine," Kate murmured.

"I can," Xander quietly said. Gunn sharply raised his head, pained eyes searing into Xander's own. "His name was Jesse."

Gunn nodded, his admiration for the boy growing exponentially. He now better understood why Cordelia had chosen him. Xander would be able to make the hard choices if push came to shove. He saw Kate also regard the kid with respect.

Buffy said nothing, her eyes wetting. Tara kept her silence; she knew who Jesse was, who he had been to Xander and Willow, but neither ever discussed him any more than was absolutely necessary, not even with each other.

"Okay," Kate began, slowly breathing out, releasing Gunn, and turning to Xander, "I verified everything you told me, which was almost nothing, but enough to convince me you're on the level. I wouldn't be here otherwise." She nodded, more to herself than anyone else. "What's happening with Cordelia, how is Faith involved, and how can I help?"

* * *

"Doyle, what the hell is going on? Is it me, or are these memories going by faster than before?" She groaned. "I need a Dramamine."

"Your time here is running out," he said with a noticeable trace of sadness. "You're going to wake up soon, so the Powers are helping you to assimilate the information more quickly."

"Resistance is futile." Her stomach lurched. "I can't keep up with all of this."

"You don't need to right now," he said. "Fighting it is making it worse. Just allow the details to flow into you and then sort them out later." He grabbed her hand. "Let's go."

Before she knew what was happening, she was pulled abruptly from the Pensieve and found herself back in the altar room of the Oracles. She promptly fell on her ass.

"Are you okay?" asked an anxious Doyle.

She held up a hand. "Just give me a minute." She closed her eyes. "I feel different."

He nodded. "That's to be expected. You've just incorporated all of the memories of an entire person. It's a big adjustment."

"Yeah, no shit." She inhaled and exhaled for several moments, trying to quell her racing heart and nauseated head. "The last thing I saw was McGonagall dragging Harry off to Dumbledore's office."

He nodded again. "When you awaken from the coma, you'll have only a small window to prepare yourself before Dumbledore comes for you."

"But I have questions!"

"And you already have the answers. You don't need me for that, Princess." He shook his head. "As much as I would like, I'm only your guide in the here and now. Once you're at Hogwarts, you're on your own."

She balked. "Hogwarts! You don't mean I actually have to go to school! I already graduated!" She pouted. "Am I going to have to blow up another school?"

He laughed. "You won't be attending as a student. You'll be a teacher."

She snorted. Loudly. "And what the hell am I supposed to teach?"

"What you do best, of course."

"Shopping?"

"Cordelia."

"Telling people off?"

Well, that certainly was a part of it. He was already relishing her first encounters with Snape and Malfoy. He felt it best not to impart that just now. "Cordelia."

"That's all I'm good for," she whispered.

"That's bullshit and you know it," he said sharply, taking her aback. "I've already told you that the Powers wouldn't have assigned you to Harry if you weren't the best person for the job."

"How am I supposed to go against Dumbledore? I can't do magic!"

He grinned. "Oh, but you can."

Her eyes bulged. "What!" she shrieked after a moment.

"You'll find out soon enough," he said, "and anything I tell you now with regard to that will only confuse the issue."

"Whatever! I still don't even know what I'm supposed to do!"

"You'll be the drama teacher, but that's just your cover. Watch out for Harry. Be his friend, but more importantly, be on his side. That's what he needs. He has friends and allies, but what he needs is someone who's looking out for him and only him. Run interference when necessary. He has to get ready for Voldemort. Really ready. Not just whatever Dumbledore thinks he should be taught."

"Stupid geezer," she savagely muttered. "I'd like to introduce him to Dennis's mother." She paused. "One of those last memories, the one with Harry in that weird bank with the hottie redhead." She ground her teeth. "Was that for real? Dumbledore really did that to Harry?"

"Aye."

"Son of a bitch."

"Aye."

She sighed and began pacing. "How much time do I have?"

"Not much," he whispered. "Ask me whatever you like while you can. I promise to give you any answers I have."

She knew that time was working against them even more quickly than either realized and she needed to ask only relevant questions; everything else she would have to piece together herself, or wait for events to unfold.

"What about the visions?"

"You'll continue to have them, but they'll be confined to events surrounding Harry." He paused. "They most likely won't be as frequent and will probably relate only to Voldemort. The care you'll receive from Poppy Pomfrey should mitigate the worst symptoms and help to reverse the damage from which you already suffer."

He cracked his knuckles. "There's a chance you could have visions related to whatever will be occurring in Los Angeles or Sunnydale, but I can't be certain."

Her brow furrowed. "Sunnydale? Why would they? Why now?"

"It's happened before," he reminded her. "Remember when I had that vision about Buffy and sent Angel scurrying off?" He shrugged. "Besides, you're now not only a Champion in your own right, but one also tied to Angel and Harry, as well to Xander, and therefore to Buffy."

She pursed her lips. She was about as anxious to be tied to Buffy as an ox would be to be yoked to a kangaroo, but if that was the worst thing to happen to her, well...lots of worse things had already happened to her. Fine. Whatever.

"Why has Narcissa Malfoy involved herself in this?"

He rolled his neck. "I honestly don't know." At her curled lip and hair toss, he rushed to add, "I'm serious. Whatever her agenda is, it's unknown and shrouded in magic. If the Powers know, they haven't told me, and there's a reason for that."

"Oh, of course there is," she snapped, rolling her eyes. "Is Harry the child in the prophecy? Is he the one destined to defeat Voldemort?"

"He is now."

Well, she had certainly walked right into that one.

"Are the people to whom Harry's reached out – Molly, Moody, the old Longbottom lady, and the Minister – can they be trusted?"

He frowned. "To an extent. Molly and Moody will do what's best for Harry, but what they feel is best might not be in his own interest. Augusta's true motivation is to protect Neville and Minister Bones is charged with doing what's best for wizarding Britain."

She chewed on her lip. So she would have to police everyone with whom Harry was involved. It was nothing she hadn't already figured out for herself. She shook her head. She needed to focus.

"Hermione and Ron. Am I going to have to fight them?"

"Yes, Hermione especially in the beginning. Once they learn that you're there only for Harry, they will do whatever you require of them, but there will be confusion and jealousy, and you'll bear the brunt of it."

She had assumed as much. "And McGonagall?"

He grinned. "You already know what card to play where she's concerned."

Cordelia nodded to herself. "Is there anyone in whom I can confide, that I can trust with everything?"

"I wouldn't recommend it," Doyle cautioned. "Dumbledore can read minds so subtly that, most of the time, people are unaware he's doing it. Choose your confidante wisely. If the need arises, I would trust only Luna or Fleur with the absolute truth."

She raised a brow. "How certain are you he won't be able to read me?"

"Very," he said with authority. "You're what's called a Natural Occlumens. He won't be able to read you unless you allow it, which might come in handy." He smirked.

She replied with a wolfish grin but then faltered. "But Buffy read my mind once, when she became a telepath or whatever."

"Ah, yes, but that's because you didn't care if she read you or not," he chuckled, "and she was stunned that your thoughts matched your words exactly. You were the only person she read who was completely honest, even within the privacy of your own mind. You didn't care what she thought of you or the situation, so you didn't bother blocking her."

"But I'll be able to block Dumbledore?" she asked skeptically.

"Aye, because you know you need to." He stepped closer to her. "I think I've worked out why the Powers chose you. Do you want to know?"

She nodded, her eyes wide.

"Because it doesn't matter who has a wand or who can read minds or who's a Slayer or souled vampire. This situation demands someone with an incredible strength of _will_, someone who can see through lies and manipulation and isn't afraid to call others on their mistakes and trespasses; someone who won't kowtow to anyone or allow themselves to be dazzled by cheap parlor tricks. You're the strongest person I know in that regard."

"Total honesty?"

He nodded.

"Harry aside, all of this aside…this is about separating me from Angel, isn't it? He's in serious trouble."

He nodded gravely. "Yeah. I don't know what's to come, but it's not good. All the Powers have told me is that whatever is after him will seek to use you to destroy him, which is why you have to go now, so you can save him later."

That was almost acceptable. "And Faith?"

"She's who he needs right now and because of what's happening with you, the Sunnydale group will no longer be cut off from ours, so Faith will be able to call them for help when she needs it."

"And how will I know when he needs me?"

"Xander. You'll be allowed to maintain contact with him and only him."

Well, that wasn't so bad. At least he'd tell her the truth about whatever was going on. "One last question."

He nodded.

She raised her gaze to his. "Do you believe I can do this, that I can help Harry?"

"There's not a doubt in my mind," he smiled, smoothing her hair.

She shook her head, her tears spilling over as she cupped his face in her hands. "I'm not strong. If I was, this wouldn't hurt so badly."

"Oh, but this pain is old, sweetness," he whispered. "It's been waiting to be released for some time now, but you locked it away in a place so dark and hidden, it festered and became malignant."

She choked on a sob before dropping her head and crying.

"It's not your fault I died, Princess. Not yours, not Angel's, not anyone's. It was just my time." He placed a hand beneath her chin and forced her to look at him. "And do you know what? I wouldn't give up my time with you and Angel for anything. Not a damn thing. They were the best months of my life. Because of Angel, I had purpose, and because of you, I became a hero."

"You already were one." She buried her face in his chest and let him hold her for several moments. "It's almost time, isn't it?" she whispered.

"Aye."

"Will I see you again?"

He laughed. "Not for a while, I hope, but yeah. One day."

She nodded and drew back, quickly scrubbing her face with her hands. She nodded. "All right, then. Let's get it right this time."

"Princess?"

She drew in a shaky breath – she wouldn't start bawling again – and stroked his cheek.

"What are you waiting for, you great baboon? Kiss me goodbye."

* * *

She drew in a shuddering breath, her throat damaged from the respirator, lungs burning and filling with more air than she could regulate. She threw herself up and forward, choking as she fought for breath. Once stabilized, she ripped the telemetry leads from her head and arm. That should bring a doctor or nurse or running.

She looked around her room, which was ridiculously small, made a mental note to make sure Angel was covering the charges, and wiggled her toes. Satisfied she would be able to walk, or at least hobble, she nodded and reached back to draw the hair out of her face.

She was going to do this.

"Okay, Hogwarts. Get ready to rock and roll."


	6. Collision Course

**Author's Note**: With this chapter, I've archived more than 1,000,000 words of fanfiction on this site. I want to thank all of my readers who have followed me for years, both as **xanzpet** and as **gleeful****musings**. Your support has meant so much and touched me deeply. If I've managed to bring you any modicum of enjoyment with my writing, that's a definite win. Again, sincerest thanks, and here's to another 1,000,000 words!

* * *

What kind of hospital _was_ this?

Cordelia sat atop her bed for a full two minutes, absently jiggling a leg and waiting for some White Coat to rush in and exclaim over her miraculous return from Comaville.

So where were they?

Amateurs.

She wondered what to do first. She had a general plan, but it required significant fleshing out before she could put it to action and she was guessing she didn't have that much time.

She shook her head angrily.

There was too much; this was all just too much. How was she supposed to handle it?

It was one thing to work with Angel and boss him around, but Harry needed a lot of help - frankly more than she thought herself capable of providing. How could Doyle, the Powers, or anyone else think she had the ability to go up against someone like Dumbledore and win?

But Dumbledore was such an _ass_. And, seriously, what was with that name?

She closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe, to think. She could do this.

She _would_ do this.

But why her?

Okay, there were the visions. Doyle had told her that they would shift focus from Angel to Harry. That made sense, as Harry was in perpetual danger. Dumbledore knew she was the Seer but doubted he understood just what that entailed. That was a point in her favor which she could exploit, and she totally wood.

Next.

Gaining Harry's trust.

That was going to be significantly more challenging. From what she had gleaned, she believed Harry all too trusting of people in positions of authority. This was completely antithetical to her, because, given how he had been raised, she would have expected him to eschew and defy authority just for the sake of it. He had a lot of respect for McGonagall, with which Cordelia was mostly okay, but his near reverence for Dumbledore was concerning.

Putting someone on such a pedestal all but guaranteed they would fall - and greatly - from it.

Her position at the school would guarantee her similar stature, but Harry was becoming more suspicious, more guarded. That was good, though, and she didn't want to discourage that. In fact, she wanted to nurture it and point in the directions where it would do the most good, but it would make any connection between them tenuous. She was too new, too unfamiliar for him to trust her simply because _Professor_ would soon preface her surname. And what a trip that would be.

Her only real option was to be frank with him and then gauge his reactions to see how much she should reveal and when. She preferred being honest whenever possible. She had the sense that Harry had a good idea when people lied to him, so she was hoping he would hear the sincerity of her words.

Ron and Hermione were going to be real problems, the latter especially. She wasn't yet sure how to deal with them, so she'd think about it later.

What else?

The other teachers.

She smirked.

Oh, but that was going to be _fun_.

Narcissa could prove to be a real pain in her _culo_, but Cordelia knew most of the cards the lady was holding and could neutralize her if necessary. Although the Lady Malfoy could prove very useful...at least until Cordelia ferreted out that damn secret Narcissa was clinging to like a fashion victim to parachute pants.

"Huh. I'll have to think some more about that one."

She stood up and rolled her neck, inadvertently looking down at her hospital gown.

"I've been dressed in synthetic fibers against my will," she noted with disbelief.

Someone was going to pay.

But first, she had to save the world.

Again.

Sighing and greatly aggrieved, she threw her legs over the bed and rose to her feet, annoyed by the feel of cold linoleum beneath her. How cheap. And who knew how many layers of baby vomit and other bodily fluids she'd rather not posit lay encrusted in the grout? Gross!

She harrumphed and stomped over toward something which she guessed qualified as a closet. If you were in the Third World.

Her clothes had better be in there and they in the same shape they had been when removed from her perfect body. She threw open the wardrobe door and peered inside.

Where the hell were her clothes!

She doubted some thoughtful candy striper had gone that extra mile to have them pressed. There wasn't even a claim ticket! She would have to look into pursuing legal action.

At last, a case Lindsey could win.

"Cordelia?"

She turned and smiled brightly at Wesley, who by then was staring stupidly at the floor, watching as his spilled coffee ran across it. "Hey! Where are my clothes?"

"I…"

"Wes? Clothes?" She plucked at her hospital gown. "This is not the fashion statement I want to make."

"Er," he sputtered, scrambling to recover, "I believe Angel took them to have them cleaned."

"Ten to one he took the money from petty cash." She glared. "He better have left a receipt."

He raised his eyes, which crinkled with warmth and relief. "It's really you."

It was almost enough to make her cry, knowing how much he loved and was worried for her, but she wasn't going to cry. "You were expecting Princess Margaret?"

"Of course not," he scoffed. "This is the room of the Queen."

It was at moments like these in which Cordelia wished Wesley wasn't such a dreadful kisser.

* * *

"Look, it's not that I'm not happy to see you," Angel said to Kate, "but I still don't understand why you're here."

She blinked. "You had trouble following that?"

Xander rolled his eyes. "Deadboy has trouble following _Matlock_."

Kate, Gunn, and Buffy all burst out laughing.

"I don't watch _Matlock_," Angel mumbled with petulance, which greatly amused Xander.

"Of course not," he agreed. "Which is why you know what it is."

Gunn laughed harder, hanging off Angel's shoulder all the while. "He calls you Deadboy!"

Angel's lips twitched. "Yes, he does."

He absolutely would not smile. He second-guessed that decision only briefly, but decided it would probably send Xander into shock – which was good – while recalling unpleasant memories for Buffy, which was definitely bad.

Buffy snickered. "I'm sure Cordelia's called him worse."

Kate laughed.

"I keep an alphabetized list," Gunn chirped.

Xander and Angel turned and looked out the picture window.

"What is it?" Tara asked.

"A car," they replied.

"It's Anya and Willow," Xander said.

Angel turned and scrutinized him. "How did you hear them?"

Buffy frowned. "Yeah, even I didn't."

"Xander and Willow always know where the other is," Tara answered, shrugging.

"Really?" Buffy asked, her nose scrunching. "Why didn't I know that?"

"How is that even possible?" Angel questioned. "Xander isn't magical."

Xander answered them both with a shrug.

Buffy's eyes narrowed as she glared at both him and Tara. "What's with all this shrugging? And when was it that you two became best friends? Even Willow was surprised that you asked Tara to come with you and that she agreed so quickly."

Angel cocked his head.

Xander and Tara exchanged a glance.

She was feeling particularly defensive and took the initiative. "Buffy, there are some things which you just don't need to know."

Buffy drew her head back as if slapped. She averted her eyes and said nothing.

"Buff," Xander quietly said, "you remember Tara's family?"

"How could I forget?" she bitterly seethed.

Angel and Gunn recoiled from her scathing response and Kate's eyes widened.

"There's a reason I never invited you to my parents' house."

Her mouth slammed shut as her eyes filled. She nodded and said nothing more.

But she would.

When this was all over, she was going to say _a lot_, and Xander was going to listen. And then she would pay a visit to his parents; they'd be lucky if all she did was talk.

Angel didn't know what to say, which was becoming a regular and unwelcome occurrence, so he held his tongue, but he felt he had been afforded more insight into Xander Harris in the past two days than in the three years they had lived in the same town.

"I hear three heartbeats," he said.

"Three?" Buffy repeated. Xander also looked confused.

"Anya probably brought Riley," Tara guessed.

Buffy and Angel sighed. "Oh, shit."

* * *

Xander opened the door and was met with a mouthful of Anya, who promptly began inspecting his uvula with her tongue.

Willow rolled her eyes, a soft smile on her face, and sailed past them straight into Tara's waiting arms. Riley stood on the threshold, looking lost. Xander briefly made eye contact, reached behind Anya, and pulled him inside by the arm. Unfortunately, he crashed into Anya's back and sent all three sprawling on the floor.

"Sorry!"

"Don't be," Anya cheerfully replied. "I have had many fantasies like this, but you're usually wearing a toga and carrying a chalice. I have discussed these thoughts at great length with Xander."

Riley blushed and began sputtering, while reaching down and pulling the other two to their feet. He tried to catch Xander's eye, but was studiously avoided. Did that mean something?

Did he _hope_ it meant something?

Wait.

What?

"You have fantasies about my boyfriend?" Buffy demanded, hands on her hips and trying to keep the grin off her face.

"Oh, not just him," Anya airily replied. "There's also the one in the old library with Giles and one with vampire Willow. Then there's the one with both of them and me laying down newspapers."

"That was way too much information," Willow and Angel said.

Xander tried to melt into the floor, but physics refused to comply. Mean physics.

"Damn," Gunn breathed. "Where can I get a girlfriend like that?"

Anya turned toward Xander. "See how lucky you are?"

* * *

They all stood around Cordelia's living room, discomfort so rife it could be filleted.

Riley was leaning against the wall, glaring at Angel, whose eyes found the nearest wall completely mesmerizing. Willow and Anya were interrogating their respective lovers as Buffy found herself in the corner opposite to Riley, unsure as to how she got there. Kate and Gunn, meanwhile, had collapsed on the couch and were grinning like fools as Dennis brought them refreshments.

"How's Cordelia?" Willow demanded from no one in particular.

"Still in the coma," Xander murmured, grateful when Anya squeezed his hand.

Willow sighed and sat down. "So are you finally going to tell us what's going on?" she asked crossly. Her eyes then found Kate and Gunn. She waved. "Hi!"

"Well, Will…"

"I'm not going to like this, am I?"

"No."

"Is it dangerous?"

"Yes."

"Illegal?"

"Very."

"Will it help Cordy?"

"I think so, yeah."

"Okay, count me in."

"Just like that?" Buffy asked, blinking owlishly.

Willow nodded. "Sure." She sighed again. "Look, you were right about all that stuff you said about Cordy and how I react to her. I didn't like hearing it, but I can't stop thinking about it, which means it needed to be said. Cordy and I don't have to like each other for me to want to help her. We're never going to be friends, but she's one of us, you know? We don't abandon our own."

Xander nodded fiercely.

"If Xander has a plan that can help her," she continued, "then that's all that matters. I trust him completely."

Anya stared.

"Right," Buffy nodded, her voice shaky. She was flooded with shame and guilt that she had been unable to evince in Xander the easy trust which Willow had so readily extended him. She vowed to make up for that misjudgment.

"So what are we doing?" Willow repeated.

"Well," Xander began, wincing, "here's the part of the plan you may not like…"

* * *

"Are you in any way, oh, I don't know, _insane?_" Willow trilled.

Xander rolled his eyes and wiped a hand down his face. "If you would stop gobbling like a turkey, maybe you would understand what I'm trying to say."

"I understand just fine! Gobble gobble! You're insane! You can't break Faith out of jail!"

"But I am - maybe to both of your charges - and I don't have time to debate this, so if you're not going to help me, then you can go. No hard feelings."

"Xander!"

"No. No, Will. No amount of cajoling or pleading or Wounded Kitten Eyes is going to cut it here. This is the plan, and if Buffy and Angel are on board, then you can just suck it up. I mean, we're the ones Faith actively tried to kill." He sighed. "Will, I'm not asking you like her. I'm not asking you to forgive her. You said you trust me. I'm asking you to trust me just one more time."

"It's not a question of trusting you, Xander," she barked. "It's a question of unleashing a homicidal lunatic with lethal superpowers upon the city of Los Angeles!"

"Yo, girl's got a point," Gunn interjected. He held up his hands. "I'm not saying you're wrong, Xander, but trust works both ways." He frowned. "You talked with the Boss and Buffy about this, and Tara already knows, so why are the rest of us in the dark?"

"Charlie's right," Kate said. "Xander, I understand and respect the fact that you're trying to help Cordelia, and I want to help you do that, but I know Faith. I've seen the damage she can cause." She narrowed her eyes. "You're talking about doing something which could very well cost me my badge and I think I'm owed an explanation. And I still haven't heard anything about how freeing Faith helps Cordelia."

Willow sat back in her chair, arms crossed, a satisfied smirk on her face.

Buffy looked at her and frowned. She had made the same argument less than an hour ago, but Willow's presentation of the facts came across as snotty and condescending. Had she sounded so obnoxious, too? Would Xander be as kind to Willow as he had been to her? How did he put up with them?

Xander flushed and tripped over his words, trying in vain to explain his motivations but unable to communicate them. Finally, Riley crossed the room and sat in front of him.

"Look at me."

After a moment, Xander raised pained eyes to the person who was arguably his best friend in a way that Willow and Buffy could never be.

Riley stared into his eyes. "You know what Faith did to Buffy." He swallowed. "To me." He covered Xander's hands with one of his own."I don't know her very well, if at all, so I don't know if she's changed. I don't know Cordelia. But I know you. If you think this is what's best, I'm willing to listen, but I'm not agreeing to anything until I know the whole story, so I'm asking you to tell me. Please?"

Angel and Buffy silently watched as Riley's words were absorbed and processed by Xander, each feeling vaguely jealous.

Xander inhaled sharply. "Okay, but first," he turned to Angel, "do you think Faith has changed?"

"Yes."

"Do you think she'll kill again?"

"A human? No."

"If she did, would you stop her? Could you?"

"I wouldn't like to be forced to hurt her, but I'd do it."

Xander turned to Buffy. "Do you think she's changed?"

She bit her lip. "I don't know, and that's the truth. Faith and I aren't prison pen pals." She sighed. "But, if I'm being honest, which I guess what you're asking me to do, I think it's possible. The last time I saw her, that night on the roof, _something_ had changed within her. I think she realized, _truly_ realized, what she had done, what she had let herself become, and she was horrified by it."

She sat down. "What you said earlier, you were right. She's not doing anyone any good sitting in jail."

"I still don't know what this has to do with Cordy," interrupted a testy Willow.

"Because in order for Cordy to get better, she has to leave," Xander said, "and she won't do that if she feels that Angel's unprotected."

"She doesn't protect me!" Angel protested.

"Like hell she don't," Gunn scoffed. "You couldn't find your head from your ass if it weren't for Barbie and you know it."

Angel grumbled nonsensical words.

"Her role is to guide you, Angel," Buffy quietly said, "just as Xander guides me. She'll help you before helping herself, and I'd like to think you love her too much to let her do that when it could very well mean her life."

Xander, Anya, Willow, Riley, and Tara all stared at Buffy with wide eyes.

"Good call," Gunn agreed, nodding.

Angel stalked from the room.

"I didn't realize they were so close," Willow said softly. "I didn't think how hard this must be on him."

Xander glared. "Oh, but you couldn't understand how hard this would be on _me_? Maybe that's because you never thought Cordelia was worthy of breathing oxygen!" he snapped. His eyes widened and he flushed with shame. "Jesus, Will. I'm sorry." He hung his head.

Her inhalation was ragged. "Don't be. It's true, and I deserve it. I've never liked thinking about her as a...as a _person_, but you have to know that I would never, ever wish this on her."

"I do know that," he said.

Anya patted his hand. "It's okay that you're still in love with her."

He cringed and drew into himself.

"What?" asked a shocked Willow.

"Xander?" a surprised Buffy prompted. "Is that true?"

"You're a fine one to ask him that," Anya barked.

Buffy's brow furrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Like you don't know!"

"Anya, back off," Xander growled.

She crossed her arms and huffed, but complied.

He cleared his throat. "My feelings for Cordelia are no one's business, but since Anya let the cat out of the bag, then fine. Yeah, I still love Cordy. I've never stopped and I never will. She was my first love and she'll always be in my heart, but she's not the only one there. I love Anya, and I'm committed to Anya." He shook his head. "None of you understood what Cordelia and I had, what we meant to each other, and none of you has the right to judge either one of us."

"No we don't," Riley said, looking at Buffy and now better understanding her relationship with Angel, however much he didn't wish to contemplate it. He knew had a lot to think about.

"I'm sorry," Anya said. "I'm not sorry if I hurt Buffy, but I'm sorry if I hurt you, Riley."

"That's okay," he said. "I know you didn't mean to, and you didn't say anything I wasn't already thinking."

"Was I wrong to bring you?" she fretted.

"No. I'm here to help Xander and that's what I'm going to do."

Xander gave him a blinding smile.

Buffy watched this interplay with detached curiosity. First Tara and Xander; now Riley, Anya, and Xander. When did they all become so close, and why hadn't she realized it? A quick look at Willow told her the witch was similarly confused.

"This is taking too long," Xander said. "Look, the reason I want Faith out is because Angel needs someone there who will look out for him but who can also check him if needed. Faith can do that."

Willow's brow furrowed. "Are you talking about, you know, Angelus?" she whispered.

"Not particularly, but if that becomes necessary, Faith can handle it."

"And we couldn't?" Gunn demanded.

"You have no idea," said a surprisingly cold Buffy. "_None_. I've faced the vampire who made Angel and the one who made her. He killed me, by the way. Xander resurrected me."

She paused and watched as Gunn processed that.

"We've gone up against a cyborg made of demon parts, an immortal human who transformed into a fifty-foot tall pure demon, and we're currently fighting a god from a hell dimension who's targeting someone I love more than my own life, and you know what? Angelus is _still_ the scariest Big Bad I've ever encountered."

"Christ," Kate muttered. She'd had an idea of what Angelus was capable, but hearing it laid out like this, by the Slayer of all people, truly drove home the point.

Gunn scowled.

Xander sighed. "What I'm saying is this: if Angelus returned and became a menace, Faith would stake him. Do you really think you could do that?"

A shadow fell over Gunn's face. He had no answer.

"And you think Cordelia could?" an interested Buffy asked Xander.

"Absolutely. It's not a question of power, but of will." He raised a brow. "And do you know why she would? Because Angel would want her to."

"Yes, I would."

They turned and regarded him.

"If Cordelia had been the Slayer when we were in Sunnydale, I'd be nothing but ashes. We all know it."

Willow and Xander nodded.

Buffy looked at once angry, guilty, and impressed. She couldn't help but wonder what it would be like if Cordelia were a Slayer. She thought it might actually be pretty cool. Better than Faith, certainly.

"Are you finished with your hissy fit?" Xander asked.

Angel stared at him for a moment before grinning. "I think so."

"So you want to use Faith to replace Cordelia?" Kate asked.

Xander nodded. "In a way, and if you think about it, it's the best parole ever. Faith could break out of jail any time she wants. The only one keeping her there is her. And if something did happen, if she went crazy again? How many people would be hurt trying to stop her? If it happens, Angel can deal with it."

She raised a brow and briefly mulled it over. "Agreed."

Angel blinked. "Just like that?"

Kate nodded. "Having the two of you keep each other in line makes sense to me, and Xander's right. If Faith wanted out, she'd be out by now, so I think that means she's trying." She paused. "I've kept up with what's going on in this city. You need help, Angel. This might not be the Hellmouth, but there's more going on than just you and Charlie can handle."

"How is Wesley going to react to this?" Tara softly asked.

"I'll do what needs to be done."

They turned toward the source of the declaration, surprised to see Wesley regarding them coolly and stunned to find a very conscious Cordelia grinning at them.

"Hey! Is this my welcome home party?" She looked around and soured. "Where the hell are my presents?"

* * *

Parvati Patil was sulking about her bedroom at her grandmother's house.

She, her twin sister Padma, younger sister Payal, and their parents were on summer holiday at their family's villa at Choward Beach outside Junagadh in the state of Gujarat. Her shutters were thrown open to allow entrance to the sunshine and fresh salt air, cool and calm despite the heat. She heard the distant cry of gulls and the chatter of tourists making their way down toward the Arabian Sea.

She looked toward the floor, at the smoldering remains of the Howler which had just immolated itself before her eyes. "Come in, Padma," she called before her sister even could knock.

Unsurprised at being detected, Padma entered and shut the door behind her, nodding at the ashes on the floor. "Who was it from?"

"Ginny," Pavarti sighed. "All in all, I think I got off rather easily." She furrowed her brow. "If that's all she has planned. You never know with Ginny."

"We didn't know."

"I doubt you'll be getting one," Parvati continued. "I'm betting that Ginny saves this particular delight for her fellow Gryffindors. For those in other houses, most likely she'll just convince her family and friends never to speak to them again. She'll reserve her ire for us."

"We didn't know," Padma repeated, her voice now tinged with doubt.

Parvati sat up and blew a lock of hair out of her face. "Well, we didn't need to know, did we? Harry called and we didn't go, and now is godfather is dead."

"Sirius Black…"

"Was innocent and now he's dead. And Hermione..." She sighed, shaking her head, tears coming to the fore. "Hermione almost died, Padma. She almost _died_." She waved a hand. "And don't give me that rubbish about how she and I aren't really friends. I've shared a room with the girl for five years; she's a Gryffindor." She hung her head. "How am I ever supposed to look her in the eyes again?"

"I don't know," Padma murmured, silently asking herself the same question. She and Hermione might be members of different houses, but that counted for very little in the scope of the fiasco which occurred in the Department of Mysteries. She would never forgive herself for not coming to Harry's aid. "I think all of us in the DA have the same thoughts swirling about our heads."

"It's not," Parvati began, struggling for words, "it's not as if I'm particularly close with Harry or Hermione, and certainly not Ron, but how many times has Harry defeated the Dark Lord? How many times has he saved us all?"

Tears of frustration began falling from her eyes and she angrily swatted them away.

"And what have we done? Ostracized him when it suited. Betrayed him. Turned on him at every chance when he needed us. Hell, even Ron serves him up on a platter with regularity!" She laughed bitterly. "But Ron was there when it counted; he, Hermione, Ginny, and Neville were true Gryffindors. Even that bloody Lovegood!" She sighed and drew her knees under her chin. "But not me," she whispered.

"He must be very lonely," Padma offered.

She had not much to say regarding Harry or Hermione, as her interactions with them had been confined either to scholastic matters or the DA. They weren't friends, nor did they really socialize. Most of what she knew of them came from Parvati.

As for Ron, her opinion of him was not very high after the way he had ignored her during the Yule Ball, and while she thought he was cute, he was also a berk. She had seen the way he treated Harry and Hermione, and she didn't like it. Luna's presence at Harry's side was confusing and something over which she would puzzle later.

"He would do it for any one of us," Parvati declared, sitting up straight. "He went down into that blasted chamber without a second thought to save Ginny and he didn't even really know her! He'd try to save any one of us, and where's our loyalty? He'd probably even swan off to save that infernal ferret, Malfoy!"

She curled a lip. "And that woman! That horrid Umbridge woman!"

"At least she's gone," Padma said with relief. She was glad she had never been forced to deal with Umbridge, but the treachery that vicious wretch had sown would visit the school for years to come. She was appalled by the behavior of Marietta Edgecombe and was glad to be rid of her.

As for Cho Chang, she would wait and see if the girl rose to the challenge of being named Head Girl. If she tried to abuse the position, she would find out how similar Ravenclaws were to Hufflepuffs regarding house loyalty and traitors.

"But the damage is done," Parvati snorted, unconsciously giving voice to her sister's thoughts. "The school is more divided now than ever, and that's not going to resolve itself anytime soon." She raised a brow. "I believe that was her ultimate goal, and she succeeded." She shook her head. "And I've lost all confidence in Dumbledore. Where was he during all of this ridiculousness? He ran off and left us all!"

"It must have been for a good reason," Padma replied, though her voice was doubtful.

"Must you always play the devil's advocate? " Parvati demanded. "It's very annoying! I don't _care_ what his reasoning was! It was obviously flawed! That woman almost destroyed the school!" She ran her hands through her hair. "I'm tired of everyone placing Dumbledore on this pedestal as if he's the beginning and end of all things. Were that true and he is _oh_ so powerful, why is always up to Harry to face You-Know-Who, hm? It's a load of bollocks, if you ask me!"

This was the moment for which Padma had been waiting, nearly six years, ever since she and her twin had been sorted into different houses. For so long, Parvati had insisted on being a brainless lackwit, obsessed with boys and divination and other such nonsense. Their bond, while still strong, had nevertheless been weakened during their time at Hogwarts; but perhaps the damage was not irreparable. Now her sister was showing that spark of determination which had all but been extinguished.

Perhaps Pavarti had been sorted into the correct house after all.

"So what do you want to do about it?" Padma demanded.

"Do about it?"

"Yes! Do about it!"

Parvati stared at her for what seemed minutes. "I don't know!" she finally wailed. "Last year during the DA was the first time I truly understood what it was to possess magic, what it was and what it could do. What's the point of having it if you don't use it to help others? If you're so scared that all you do is cower in a corner with your wand up your arse?"

Padma's eyes widened as she stifled a snicker. "Do you think Harry will continue the DA?"

Parvati jumped to her feet. "He has to! Last year's Defense class was an utter waste of time, and we're so far behind already! Were it not for Harry, none of us would have passed our OWLs."

She turned on her heel and wrung her hands. "He simply must. Oh, Padma, can you imagine what the Dark Lord will do to our family should he become more powerful?" Her expression was pained. "We might not be the right skin tone, but we are purebloods. Sooner or later, he'll come to Father and demand obeisance. He'd probably want to marry us off to his disgusting Death Eaters to beget their devil spawn!"

Her laugh was brittle. "Of course, Father would never align himself with You-Know-Who, but our family would become targets and we've already alienated Harry." She shook her head in anger, her long braid swinging to and fro like a horse's tail. "I won't be made fodder for that brat Malfoy and his junior Death Eaters. I'd rather die first." Her eyes narrowed. "And if I'm going down, I'm taking the lot of them with me."

"I don't believe we've alienated Harry," Padma said carefully. "I cannot believe he would refuse to deny us protection." She sighed. "But I'm sure we've disappointed him."

"Harry must hate us," Parvati whispered, covering her eyes with her hand.

"I sincerely doubt Harry hates anyone," her sister replied. "Well," she added as an afterthought, "perhaps Malfoy and Snape. And the Dark Lord, of course." She squared her shoulders. "We'll just have to apologize and take our lumps. Promise to stand by him from now on."

"And why should he believe us?" Parvati barked. "I know I wouldn't, were I him."

"But you're not," Padma sharply countered, "and neither am I. None of us is. Harry's his own person and he's a forgiving person. I think you're underestimating him, confused by your shame."

Parvati paused then shook her head. "Who's to say it wouldn't happen again? It's only a matter of time before the Dark Lord makes his next move, you know. Perhaps even at Hogwarts. What then? Death Eaters storming the castle and a bunch of upper years are to ward off him and his army? Even with Harry as our leader, how many will fail? How many will die? The entire school could pledge their loyalty to Harry, but when push comes to shove – and it will – how many will renege on their promises?"

Padma raised her eyebrows. "Would you?"

"I don't know," Parvati confessed after several seconds of silence. "I truly don't know. I'm scared, sister."

"As am I, but I'm not about to run off and stick my head in the sand like some ostrich. Not again. Harry Potter is all that's standing from Voldemort – yes, I said his name – taking over our world. And then what happens to us? We'd be enslaved regardless." Padma shook her head. "We're not children anymore, Parvati. We're not ickle first-years stepping off the Express. The decisions we make now will define the rest of our lives, and I'm determined to make the right ones." She paused. "I choose Harry."

Parvati stared at her sister for several torturous moments. "As do I," she finally said.

"Are you confident enough in that decision to make him an Unbreakable Vow?"

The color drained from Parvati's face as her hands shook, but her decision was already made. She swallowed heavily and then nodded.

"Yes."

* * *

Seamus Finnigan puttered about his mother's vegetable garden in the back of their small cottage outside Cork.

His attempt to rouse himself from his latest bout of self-pity was as spectacular a failure as all those previous. For the first time since he began Hogwarts, he had welcomed returning home, hoping to find solace in his mother's nagging and the house of his childhood, but had learned cowardice could not be outrun. He reached down into the struggling crop of potatoes, unearthed a garden gnome, and sent the squealing mass flying into the adjoining property. Let the O'Malleys sort it.

Christ, how was he going to go back to sharing a dorm room with Harry in just two short months? His shame at his own behavior had segued past guilt and regret and straight into humiliation, doubled by the fact that he had no one but himself to blame.

He sighed. He'd been so stupid, running off at the mouth whenever he and Harry had crossed paths. They had never been close, but he knew Harry was no nutter, and while he hadn't believed the rumors about Harry that had been swirling about the school, he had nevertheless perpetuated them by opening his big fat mouth whenever the mood struck, which was often.

He hadn't been friends with Harry, or Ron for that matter, but they had been friendly, enveloped by a sense of camaraderie, buoyed by mutual animosity for Snape, Malfoy, and girls, and united by love of Quidditch, Gryffindor house, and Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. But what was there now?

Now, Sirius Black was dead. Now, Hermione Granger had almost been killed. Now, no one could prance about, secure in the belief that Harry was insane and the Dark Lord was nothing but the paranoid fantasies of a disturbed attention-seeker.

Seamus was positive their dorm room would become a war zone. Harry most likely would not want anything to do with him, for which Seamus could hold no ill will, and Ron would certainly go on the attack against all of those who had wronged Harry, and rightly so. Neville's confidence had grown by leaps and bounds and the recent events at the Department of Mysteries were sure to have only deepened his faith in Harry.

And then there would be Hermione with whom to contend; coupled with that of which Ginny Weasley was capable, Gryffindor House was rife to become a battlefield.

"Ah, shite."

He had no idea how Dean Thomas would react or adjust to these developments. As friendly as they were, Seamus was loath to ascribe to them the relationship that Harry, Ron, and Hermione shared. Rarely were they in contact outside of school save the occasional owl, and had few similar interests. Indeed, one of the predominant reasons they had migrated toward each other was because Harry and Ron had bonded so quickly, and Neville, who had once lingered on the periphery, was obviously more interested in being part of their crowd than in hanging out with Seamus and Dean; not that Neville was ever unkind – to anyone, really – but Seamus supposed it all boiled down to the laws of attraction.

He dreaded what the coming term would bring and what it would mean for Gryffindor House, though he knew deserved whatever punishment would be heaped upon him. He was worse than Malfoy; he was even worse than You-Know-Who. At least Malfoy and the Dark Lord, no matter how evil and twisted, had chosen a side. Granted, it was the wrong one and one which Seamus himself would never join. Still, which was worse: doing evil, or doing nothing? He knew the answer and didn't like it.

He was so lost in self-recrimination, he didn't notice his mother's approach.

"Son?"

He sighed. "I really mucked it up, Mam."

She raised a brow and looped her arm through his, guiding him toward the swing among the rose bushes. "Is this about the Potter boy?"

He looked askance at her, eyes wide. As he sat down, he felt a weight lift, but still oppressed. "How did you know?"

"Oh, Shay," she sighed. "I did you no favors when I refused to answer your questions about the First War against You-Know-Who." She shook her head, her anger at herself apparent. "There were things I should have told you, things you needed to know." She turned to face him. "Especially about Harry."

He cocked his head. "You talk as if you know him. Personally, I mean."

She nodded and averted her eyes. "Because I do. I was close friends with Lily, his mother. We were all at Hogwarts together, in Gryffindor, of course."

He felt stupid. He should have known this. How many times had he walked past James Potter's Seeker badge on display in the Great Hall. He knew the date. Why had it never occurred to him that his own mother must have been not only in school with Harry's parents, but in their class as well?

Moira Finnigan faced east, the sun warm on her skin as she closed her eyes and listened to the cows lowing in the fields of the neighboring farm. "I ran, Shay."

"Mam?"

"I ran," she repeated, her voice thick with anguish and shame. "Not very long after you turned one. I knew what was coming, what would happen. I didn't need to read tea leaves to see it. So I packed us up and ran." She bowed her head. "After Alice…"

"Who?" he asked, when she didn't further elaborate.

She cleared her throat. "Alice Longbottom," she whispered.

He pulled a face. "Neville's mum?" he guessed. "You knew her, too?"

She nodded. "She was my best mate. I loved that girl, Seamus. With everything inside of me, I loved her. She was so sweet, so kind. She was the most decent soul I have ever encountered. I would have done anything for her. And then that…that…_creature_…LeStrange got a hold of her and Frank." She trailed off, frowning at the ground.

"Why didn't you ever tell me?" he asked, his confusion obvious. "Neville and Harry have been my dorm mates for five years."

She sighed. "You need to understand, son, those were dark days." She shook her head. "So dark," she whispered. She swallowed. "Like I said, I knew what was coming, and after Frank and Alice fell, I was never more sure. I felt in my bones that it was only a matter of time before he conquered us all and killed those who wouldn't obey. So I was glad that I had run, because I knew I wasn't strong enough to stay, but neither was I weak enough to surrender."

"Mam?"

"You bring a child into this world, you want to make it the best world possible for them. Voldemort had been growing in power, but many of us deluded ourselves into thinking that he would be vanquished. We bought into the power and serenity of Dumbledore, wrapping ourselves warm inside our little cocoons. Even though I knew people like Lily and James, and Frank and Alice, were taking active roles in the struggle, I didn't allow myself to believe I – or you, for that matter – would ever be touched, though I secretly knew better. And I was wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.

"There remained a modicum still hope," she continued, for once without prompting. "Most of the Aurors and their reserves had been depleted, but Frank and Sirius had signed up, and James and Alice became Hit Wizards, though most were unaware that was Alice's real position. They, and Lily and Remus, were the brightest witches and wizards of our age, much like you tell me is true of that young Granger girl. We had Dumbledore and McGonagall. The hope was dim, but it was present and we clung desperately to it. And then they all began to die. Or worse."

"Nev's parents were Aurors?"

She fixed him with a sidelong glance. "Neville doesn't talk about his parents, does he, son?"

Seamus shook his head.

"They're not dead."

His brow furrowed. "What?" He shook his head. "But Neville lives with his gran. And from what I've seen, she's a bit of a tyrant."

Moira smiled. "Augusta was always a fearsome witch, and had the talent and determination to back it up. She loved Frank so much, Shay; Alice, too. I imagine she clings tightly to Neville because he is all she has left of her family."

"Well, then, where are they?" he demanded. "The Longbottoms?"

Her eyes drifted away and her voice donned a singsong quality he had never before heard. "Why, they're in hospital, Seamus. Saint Mungo's, actually. Long-Term Spell Damage Ward. I visit them on occasion, when you're away at Hogwarts."

He chewed on that for a moment. "What's wrong with them?" he asked, fearful of the answer.

"The Cruciatis Curse is a vicious beast, Seamus. Even the strongest of us buckle under its weight. But for poor Frank and Alice…" She sighed. "Bellatrix LeStrange captured them in their own home. Tortured them." She bit her lip as tears slid down her cheeks. "They're insane. They will never recover. They lie in their beds, never moving, never blinking, never taking notice of the world around them which continues to carry on as if they had never been a part of it."

She stood and picked at her apron. "It's worse than death, Seamus. Death stalks them, laughs and pokes at them, but never claims them." She clasped her hands. "That is what evil is, son. It exists to spread loss, to spread suffering. That is why Voldemort is so dangerous – not because of his power or his minions, but because he doesn't _care_. Whatever humanity he once possessed was snuffed out long ago for whatever reason. He is, purely and simply, unadulterated evil."

He had to force his mouth to close, his teeth aching with the effort, his tongue glued to his upper palate.

"It all was done right in front of Neville. He was her bargaining chip, you see. Bellatrix is powerful, yes, but so were Frank and Alice. Granted, they were never in Lily's league, or even that of Remus ,but were on par with James and Sirius. But she had their son, and so she had them." She sighed once more. "I only pray he doesn't remember."

Seamus looked up at her and blinked. "Harry does."

"What?" she snapped, grabbing his chin in her hand. "What did you say?"

"Harry remembers what V…what You-Know-Who did to his parents."

"Merlin!" She released him and shoved nervous hands in her pockets.

"Do you remember when I wrote you about the Dementors? About how they affected Harry during that Quidditch match because they use your worst memory?"

She nodded.

"It was that memory they used, the one in which his parents were killed. I overheard him telling Ron and Hermione." He closed his eyes. "He doesn't remember much, but enough so that the Dementors can paralyze him. He remembers the Dark Lord coming into his bedroom. He remembers his mother standing between him and the Dark Lord. And then he sees a green light."

Moira's hands flew to her mouth as she squeezed shut her eyes and furiously shook her head. "Oh, that poor boy. That poor, sweet boy."

No words passed for several long moments.

"I knew it wasn't over," Moira finally whispered. "Even after Harry defeated him the first time, I knew we were just biding time, that he wasn't really gone, that he was out there somewhere, lying in wait. I was terrified when you got your letter, but I knew I couldn't prevent you from going. You were already having too many bursts of accidental magic. I knew you had to go, and I knew once you saw Harry again…"

"Again? What do you mean?"

"You don't remember?" She wrung her hands. "Oh, Shay, yes, I was friends with Lily and James, but you were friends with Harry, from the moment you both were born."

He blinked. "What?"

She nodded, an unwilling smile tugging at her lips. "You and Harry and Neville all used to play together when you were babies. Lily, Alice, and I would get together to discuss all of the latest goings on, and you three boys were such good mates, but you and Harry in particular."

"Me and Harry?" he blankly repeated.

"Oh, how that boy loved you, Seamus, and you him. Every time you two were together, it was as if you were brothers. You would play together, eat together, even sleep together. No one could calm you like Harry. You suffered so with the colic, but all I needed to do was deposit you in Harry's crib, and he would squirm his way over to you, wrap an arm around you, and you'd nod right off. It was absolutely adorable. All of us were so pleased; we wanted you three to be as close as we were, especially since you would all be at Hogwarts together."

"I can't believe this," Seamus breathed.

"Do you know your name was one of Harry's first words?" She smiled. "He couldn't pronounce it exactly, of course. He called you Shammy." She laughed. "Oh, but you knew he was talking to you. Whenever he would say your name, your face would light up and you would clap with excitement." She looked away. "It wasn't long after…."

Seamus wanted to vomit and surprised his mother by bursting into tears.

Moira fell to her knees and took him in her arms. "What is it, son? What's happened?"

"You didn't betray anyone, Mam. I did."

"What do you mean, baby?"

"All last year," he sobbed. "I was so horrible to him, so miserable. A complete git. And he tried so hard, Mam. He tried _so hard_ to warn us that You-Know-Who was back, tried so hard to protect us, to help us arm ourselves so we wouldn't be cannon fodder. He tried to help _me_." He choked on his tears. "And I denied him. I ridiculed him. I allowed others to do the same. I told him he was insane, that he was going to get all of us killed, and that our deaths would be his fault."

"Oh, Seamus," she whispered, her voice warring with disappointment and compassion.

"I know, Mam," he rasped. "I know, but it's too late now. What's done can't be undone. He'll never truly forgive me and I don't blame him. I wouldn't either." He pulled away and hung his head. "He looked at me with such sadness, but he never gave up on me, not fully, even though I wanted him to. He looked at me as if he didn't know who I was. And now I don't know who I am either."

She smoothed his hair with her hand and let him talk.

"I'm so scared, Mam. I'm terrified. You were right; the Dark Lord is coming. And if Harry falls, he'll come here. I'm a half-blood; you're a blood traitor. Da's a Muggle." He wiped his nose with his sleeve, even though he knew how much his mother detested that habit. "I thought if I didn't believe it, then it just wouldn't happen, and now I don't know what to do. I want to be his friend again, Mam. I do. I joined the DA and tried to make it right, I apologized to him, but Hermione and Ron think I'm rubbish and I don't blame them."

"It doesn't matter what they think, Shay. It matters what Harry thinks." She raised a brow. "Maybe you should ask him what that is."

"He said he forgave me."

"Do you believe him?"

"Yeah. I guess. I don't know! Harry said he forgives me, and I've never heard him say anything he doesn't mean. And that just makes it worse!" he raged, tears beginning anew. "Hermione called me that night, that night at the Department of Mysteries. And I didn't go. I didn't _go_, Mam. I apologized, tried to make it right, and then mucked it up all over again. Harry's never asked anything of us, Mam, nothing that he wouldn't ask of himself. Less, probably. But the only one who's stood by him from the beginning is Hermione."

She rested her head atop his own. "I'd be lying if I said I would have wanted you there, Seamus. You're my son, my only child. I love you more than I can ever possibly say. If I could, I'd keep you away from all of this, pull up stakes and run again, but you have to know that's no longer an option. The Dark Lord is coming and most believe only Harry can stop him. He won't be able to do it alone."

She sighed. "If you can't stand at his side, make it a clean break. Allow him to move on and distract him no further. Many will die before this is over, Shay. Maybe your friends, our family, maybe you, though Merlin knows I'm on my knees every morning and every night praying that doesn't happen."

"But?" he whispered.

"But, if you wish to stand with Harry, then do so with your whole heart. I can't make this decision for you, son, for that decision would be selfish, serving my own aims. But don't do what I did. Don't run. I abandoned my friends and my world out of fear. I carry the guilt with me to this day and it is that, not my magic, which drove the final nail in the coffin of my marriage to your father."

She shook her head. "If I could have sent you away with him, I would have, to keep you safe, but you know how hopeless he is. As much as he loves and is enthralled by our magic, he doesn't really understand it, nor does he wish to."

She released him gently and stood. "Learn from my mistakes, son. Hold fast to your friends. Don't give them up, whatever the danger." She began walking back to the house and then paused and looked over her shoulder at him. "Else one day you will wake up to find you have survived, but have forgotten how to live."

* * *

This was a trip, she decided.

Cordelia still couldn't get quite used to whatever Doyle or the Powers or whoever had done to her, and she was more than a little pissed off they had seen fit to do so without her permission or even any warning.

As if she needed some kind of upgrade to her unchallenged fabulousness?

Bitch, please.

And besides, seeing magic? Actually _seeing_ it? What was she supposed to do with that?

Still, it was interesting.

It was bizarre and beautiful and transformative; it was also scary, disconcerting, and just plain weird.

It was one thing to know that magic was real, to know people who possessed it and wielded it for both good and evil, but to see it pulsating and radiating and _alive_ was another thing entirely.

It had been distracting enough with Wesley on the ride back to her apartment. She knew that he had some reserve of power, although not, she guessed, anywhere near the level of Giles, but looking at those gathered in her living room, her breath was all but stolen from her body. It was both exquisite and terrifying.

And it was the best she had ever seen Willow look.

Not that she would ever tell her, of course.

She looked then at Buffy and could see the magic swirling about her. It was different from that of Willow, though she couldn't think of the words to qualify exactly what that difference was. More malevolent? She didn't get the sense that whatever was in Buffy was evil per se, but it was dark, ancient, and not belonging to the girl herself.

Her eyes flitted toward Tara and it was all she could do not to weep at the sheer beauty of what she saw. Tara wasn't as powerful as Willow, she noted, but the colors were more harmonious, more gentle. There was a peaceful calm which emanated from the girl and appeared to wash over them all, and Cordelia was grateful for it.

She cleared her throat and realized Angel was staring at her, confused and worried, and she felt her heartbeat thump like a snare drum, threatening to burst forth from her chest.

She could see it, his soul, and it _was_ his; it wasn't just some stupid curse or a spell of Willow's – it was _his_, it was Angel. She felt the tears gather in her eyes and she blinked them back, because she absolutely was not to going to cry.

"That's what I call an entrance," a slightly jealous Anya said, nodding her head at Cordelia, who recovered herself and smirked.

Unconsciously, Buffy and Angel moved to stand next to each other, their eyes narrowed. Riley said nothing in favor of discovering what was troubling them.

"Anything?" Buffy muttered.

Angel shook his head.

Cordelia raised a brow before unceremoniously pushing Wesley away, grabbing a squawking Willow, and pulling the girl toward her. She looked at Angel and Buffy.

"How about now?"

They shook their heads.

"What's going on?" Willow demanded.

"I can't sense them," Angel said. "I can't hear their heartbeats."

Willow's eyes widened. "Buffy?"

"Nothing," the Slayer said tersely. "What's happening?"

"Magical shielding," Anya whispered, looking upon Cordelia with awe. "Now that's nifty."

Cordelia smiled at her and released Willow, both grateful for the loss of contact.

"How is this possible?" Angel asked.

"All things are possible," Cordelia sniffed. "It's just a question of knowing how to do them."

"Then how did you do it?" he demanded.

"How the hell should I know?"

"Um, guys?" Tara interjected. "That's not really the hot issue here."

"That's not the hot…" Wesley thundered, his eyes wide, before falling quiet. "Oh, yes." He nodded. "Quite." He turned toward Cordelia. "You were rather tight-lipped about your miraculous return. Not that I'm not thrilled you're with us once more, but…"

She patted his arm. "We have time. Not much, but some."

"Hugs," Xander grunted.

"Please and thank you." She'd make him wait for it, though.

Cordelia allowed herself to be passed from person to person, receiving hugs and well wishes, though she made sure to stay with no one for too long; there was only so much coddling she could bear.

The embraces from Willow and Buffy were a strange mixture of perfunctory greeting and heartfelt concern, which she found surprising, rather lovely, and somewhat irritating, though she maintained her composure. She caught the eyes of those whom she did not know, pleased to see warmth and kindness in their gazes; she was always willing to be paid court by strangers.

Still, she wouldn't soon forget that no one had thought to bring even one present.

At last she found herself in Xander's arms, startled to be reminded of how well they fit her, wondering how she had ever let herself forget it, and a wave of soft sadness overcame her. If nothing else came from this mess and what was to come, her renewed connection to him was worth it all. He had no magic, she saw, and for this she was grateful.

There were no rainbows floating around him, no bursting prisms; rather, there was a complete absence of color. He glowed white. He absolutely glowed with goodness.

Xander was _good_.

That was the only epithet which could possibly describe him, and that angered her because he was so much more than a banal word which people tossed about and applied to everything from incredible sex to a tasty French fry. Xander really _was_ the White Knight.

When he wasn't kissing witches in abandoned factories, of course.

She was just thankful she wasn't still in love with him, because…yeah.

"How are you awake?" he finally asked, after placing a chaste kiss on her lips.

She frowned and raised a brow. "So I should still be on my back, waiting for someone to do something?"

"Not unless you're Harmony."

Her eyes darkened. "Do you know she came here and tried to bite me?"

"I always thought she had a thing for you."

"Actually, she had a thing for Oz, but whatever."

"What!" Willow screeched.

They ignored her, smiling stupidly at one another. The others could sense their bond, all but see it tangibly joining them, and kept a respectful distance. Buffy inadvertently found herself looking to Angel, who appeared sad and nostalgic. She understood. Cordelia and Xander's reunion was a painful reminder to all of them of simpler times.

Well, she frowned, perhaps not simpler, but less confusing.

She wasn't sure that was right, either. It hadn't been easier when they were in high school, when she had been with Angel, Xander had been with Cordelia, and Willow with Oz, but those were some of her happiest memories.

Xander guided Cordelia over to the couch, anxious for her to get off her feet, but paused to allow Dennis to adjust the cushions and fluff the throw pillows. When Angel came to sit next to her, Xander said nothing and discreetly moved across the room. Angel was touched by the gesture, almost a tacit permission or even approval, though he would spare them both the embarrassment of voicing his gratitude.

She folded her legs beneath her and curled into him, resting her head on his shoulder. "Hi."

He went to touch her, his hand hovering in the air, then deciding he didn't care what the others thought of their relationship or any speculations they might later posit, before twining their fingers together.

"Hey," he said softly. "You okay?"

She nodded after a moment, giving his question serious consideration. "Comas? Not very rejuvenating, but yeah, I'm okay."

He took that for what it was. "What are you doing out of the hospital?"

She turned to look up at him. "They dressed me in rayon." She raised a brow. "I'm just supposed to put up with that?"

"Well, medicine is an inexact science."

"Apparently," she snorted before falling silent for a moment, wondering how best to answer his unasked questions. "I was with Doyle."

She felt him freeze against her, his muscles stiffening with tension and sorrow, and she ignored the gasps from the others.

"He's okay, Angel," she whispered, grave eyes peering up at him as she rubbed his arm. "Really."

He nodded but said nothing.

"Oh, before I forget, the next time you see the Oracles?" She smiled and bared her teeth. "Tell them I said hi."

His lips twitched. "What did you do?"

"Threats, intimidation, and physical violence. Best meeting _ever_."

He inclined his head. "Impressive."

"Naturally."

He looked down at their joined hands. "This was planned? The Powers?"

She nodded. "I really don't like them and I don't understand what they're about – I'm not particularly sure I want to – but maybe things will be better now that Doyle is working with them."

Angel doubted that but held his tongue. "Couldn't hurt," he finally said. His eyes flitted about the room, taking in the curious glances of the others. "What do they want with you? Why now?"

"Something's coming," Xander said.

Cordelia sharply raised her head, her eyes boring into his, and nodded.

He cocked his head. "It's after Angel."

"Yes."

"You're the bait?"

She smacked Angel's hand. "Stop growling," she admonished, pleased when he fell silent. She smirked at Xander. "It's kind of sad how little my role has changed since Sunnydale, but luckily it's been expanded from guest star to lead."

"You were never just a day player," Buffy said.

Cordelia looked askance at her, doubt and gratitude plain on her face. "Thanks," she said, offering a small smile.

"I don't know what it is, Angel," she admitted, turning back to him. "Doyle wouldn't tell me, and I'm not sure he even knows. But it's real, it's coming, and it planned on killing me to get to you. Xander has changed that."

She sighed and looked up at her very best used-to-be. "You did everything right. Everything I would have wanted. Thanks."

There was a lot more she wanted to say, but knew he would read between the lines. His calculated aggressive ignorance had never fooled her. He was the maestro who read the subtle notes in the voices of all those whom he loved, both in the words and the silences.

"I kind of owe you," he said sheepishly.

"And, what, you think this makes us even?" she barked, glaring, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

His eyes narrowed and, after a moment, he released a breath and laughed. "I've really missed you," he said quietly.

"Well of course you have," she laughed. "I would too, if I were you. And I thank god every day I'm not." Her nose wrinkled. "Jesus, Xander, what the hell are you wearing? You come to see me for the first time in two years, I wake up from a coma, and you're sporting a shirt that looks like the awning of a Halloween store. It's obnoxious, and so are you. Why don't you just beat me with a stick?"

He colored as Anya, Buffy, Tara, and even Willow snickered.

"Why? Is all kinds of candy going to pop out of your ass?" he sniped back.

"The closest you ever got to my ass was kissing it, and even then you needed Yahoo Maps."

Riley looked at Buffy. "You really weren't kidding."

She shook her head. "This? Is nothing. It's their version of getting coffee."

His eyes widened.

"A thousand apologies, my liege," Xander sneered, as if there had been no interruption. "I was a little preoccupied."

"I guess so, what with fighting your best friend and mine." She sighed. "Very well. Once again I shall overlook your ridiculous wardrobe and focus on what's important: me."

"Gee, _there's_ a radical shift in priorities," he drawled, eliciting snickers from everyone, including Angel.

She couldn't let him have the last word, so she flipped him off. "Oh, shut up."

She looked up at Anya. "Hey."

Anya waved gaily. "I'm very happy that you are not dead or mentally incapacitated."

"Thanks."

"What she meant…"

"I know what she meant, Xander. She's happy I'm alive; so am I. We don't need a translator. Anya and I understand each other just fine." She stood up, cocked her head, and considered THE other woman more closely. Finally, she nodded. "I like the blond. It suits you. And you actually do your roots." She turned to Buffy. "Take a lesson."

Buffy grinned and shook her head.

Anya felt a curious sensation, one which she had never experienced. Something moved through her, a lightness and warmth, something which she never would have admitted she craved: approval. Cordelia _approved_ of her, of her being Xander's girlfriend. She felt hot and embarrassed as her eyes became wet.

"Thank you," she whispered.

The others watched and felt like intruders.

Cordelia nodded. "Sure. Thanks for making him happy." She turned to Xander. "I'm glad you are. It matters to me."

He blushed and looked at the floor, mumbling something not even Buffy or Angel could understand, though acknowledgment registered on Cordelia's face.

"Well," she continued, "there's a lot to do. Let's start with introducing me to those I don't know." She looked at Tara. "I heard you in the hospital, dressing Wesley down. That was awesome! He totally deserved it. Nice to meet you."

Tara smiled and nodded her head. "Same here. Glad you're okay."

"Dressing Wesley down?" a hopeful yet forlorn Buffy repeated. "And I missed it?"

Cordelia nodded. "Too bad, because it was award-winning. He was being a big jerk and Tara wasn't having it. I think my favorite part was her threatening him with Joyce. He might have peed, but I'm not positive." She leaned up to Wesley and patted his chest. "I forgive you. I know you were just trying to protect me, and I kind of love you for that. But not in a let's-kiss-in-the-stacks way."

He colored. "Yes. Well. I regret that I was rather rude."

"You were concerned," Tara said kindly. "I understood."

He nodded and let it go.

Cordelia looked to Willow. "This?" she said, pointing to Tara. "Pretty awesome. Probably better than you deserve, but congrats."

Willow smiled, pleased. That was as close as she had ever gotten to a compliment from Cordelia Chase and she wasn't going to allow the all but mandated snub to ruin it.

"And the stud in the corner must be Riley," she continued, giving him a sidelong appraisal before turning to Buffy and nodding. "Nice."

Buffy grinned and nodded her thanks. "I think so."

Riley beamed bashfully at both of them.

"Now," Cordelia said, "let's talk about Xander and Angel making out in my bedroom. By the way," she frowned, "Dennis! Do we have Lysol?"

She raised a triumphant fist into the air as a can floated toward her.

"What!" almost everyone bellowed.

"We did _not_ make out!" Xander screamed. "It was just a hug!" He blew out a breath. "We don't need to mention the frottage, do we?"

Angel cackled and leered at him, surprised but pleased when Xander blushed and smiled.

"You _hugged_?" Buffy and Willow screeched, as Riley and Wesley gaped at Xander and Angel, respectively.

"You're such a brat," Angel said to Cordelia, who sighed with gleeful smugness.

"Yes, Xander and Angel finally had a Hallmark moment, and it's all thanks to me." She struck a pose. "Cordelia Chase: Miracle Worker."

"Well, I guess so," a stunned Willow remarked.

"So when are we breaking Faith out of the pokey?"

* * *

Cho Chang sat at the bureau in her bedroom, her restless eyes looking out the dormer window and scanning the moors below.

A fine layer of mist swirled about the roots of the trees which marked the entrance into the woods bordering their property. She thought it would be marvelous if they would envelop her and carry her away to a place where she wasn't praised for meaningless things or despised for her weaknesses, which were, admittedly, many.

She sighed heavily and looked down at her hand, which held the shiny new Head Girl badge. She found it rather difficult to find any joy in this achievement. She frowned and tossed it over her shoulder.

All of her work, all of her planning, all of her struggles had been for naught.

Two months would see her returning to Hogwarts, to the sullen whispers of the jealous and the outright hostility of the betrayed. She had provided further ammunition for those Slytherins who had always despised her, as well as to the Gryffindors, who would doubtlessly be rallied against her by Ginny Weasley and Hermione Granger. Hufflepuff House had never thought her good enough for Cedric, and her dalliance with Harry so soon after the former's passing had only furthered that belief; her later perfidy of Harry put an end to any hopeful reconciliation or amiable indifference. The Ravenclaws would shun her.

She deserved it, she knew. She had been a right git. Thankfully that twit Marietta had transferred to Beauxbatons and hopefully her absence would help quell the ire her treachery had sown.

She grimaced and fought back the wave of memories threatening to assail her.

How stupidly she had taken Marietta's side, how foolish she had been to endorse the girl's machinations, all because she herself believed salacious gossip about the nature of the relationship between Harry Potter and Hermione Granger.

Her brow furrowed. Not that said gossip was completely out of the realm of possibility, she added to herself. Merlin knew that no two people were closer than Harry and Hermione, although for argument's sake she should include Ronald Weasley somewhere in that equation.

Still, everyone knew that Harry and Ron had rowed on any number of occasions, as had Ron and Hermione. So, therefore, when all was said and done, it's wasn't unreasonable to argue that the relationship between Harry and Hermione was more than just mere friendship. That didn't mean, however, her conscience lectured, that there was anything romantic between them.

She sighed. And, of course, rather than just asking Harry, she had chosen to believe rumor and speculation over the very real feelings she knew Harry had once had for her.

"I was a complete ninny. A jealous twit."

It wasn't as though there had been anything serious between her and Harry, but there had been a chance of real friendship, and she well knew that Harry didn't take his friendships lightly. But, no, she had been hurt and petulant, and hadn't gone when Hermione had called.

Now Sirius Black was dead, Hermione had almost died, Voldemort had attacked the Ministry, and the entire wizarding world was in chaos. She wasn't arrogant enough to believe that her presence at the Department of Mysteries could have altered the outcome, but if she had gone, at least she could say that she had done _something_ other than acting like an arse.

"Cedric would be so ashamed of you," she muttered to herself, angry at the tears which now threatened.

She furiously blinked them back and stared at her reflection.

"All right, then, enough sobbing. Enough regrets and hormones and irrational fears and stupid Madam Puddifoot's and all the rest of it." She nodded with a confidence she didn't feel. "It is time to put childish things behind you."

She watched with a curious detachment as her reflection mirrored her movements, as she tamped down her rage at her own ineffectuality.

"You will go back to that school with your head held high. You will be the best damn Head Girl Hogwarts has ever seen and you will make both Cedric and Harry proud of you."

She glared into her own eyes. "And Merlin willing, maybe for once you will be proud of yourself."

* * *

Interim Minister of Magic Amelia Bones sat behind her desk and listened impassively as Auror Tonks detailed the earlier scene at Diagon Alley and the attack on Harry Potter, disgusted by the idea that adults would swarm a teenager like a plague of locusts. She nodded and grunted at the appropriate lulls in the conversation, her eyes never leaving the face of Percy Weasley, who became even more despondent as the events were laid bare.

"Thank you, Tonks," Bones demurred. "Weasley! Suggestions?"

Percy raised his head and blinked rapidly. "Minister?"

Bones rolled her eyes. "You were allegedly the brightest student of your class. You know all of the parties involved. I am interested in hearing your opinions."

She smothered a wry grin as she watched Tonks give Weasley a disgusted appraisal.

"I'm not sure…"

"You aren't sure of much, are you?" Tonks hissed under her breath.

Bones held up a hand. "That will be quite enough, Auror Tonks. Weasley, you are undoubtedly aware of how badly you miscalculated by placing your faith in Fudge and Umbridge. What I want to know is if your brain has atrophied to the point where you will be of no use to me. If so, you would be wise to leave now."

She was relieved and heartened when the young man made no move to exit her office. Good; perhaps his character was not quite as weedy as events had led her to believe. She leaned forward and fixed him with a glare.

"You have unwittingly found yourself in a position once applicable to Potter himself: those whom you trusted have either turned against you or have proven to be incompetent. How do you suggest we handle this latest development?" She elegantly raised a brow. "You have been debriefed. Were you Potter, what would be your primary concern?"

Percy nervously licked his lips. "The media?"

"Is that a statement or a question?"

Tonks snorted.

"A statement? Yes, a statement. _The_ _Prophet_ has been maligning Harry since he matriculated at Hogwarts."

"Oh, so now it's Harry, is it?" demanded an icy Tonks. "Not the crazy Potter boy?"

Bones said nothing as Percy hung his head. "If you are unable to face this woman, Weasley, how in the name of Merlin do you plan to reconcile with your family? Or do you not wish to do so?"

"Of course I do!" Percy exclaimed.

Bones offered a rare benign smile. "Their loyalty to Potter far supersedes that of Auror Tonks." She dismissed the strangled cluck emitted by Tonks. "Knowing Molly as I do, she will welcome you back into the fold, as will Arthur, though he will be harder to win over. As for your siblings, well."

She shook her head. "I am unfamiliar with your eldest brothers, but the reputations of the twins speak for themselves, and given how badly they ran afoul of Umbridge, it will most likely be difficult for them to divorce you completely from her reign of terror. Young Ronald and Ginevra may indeed be lost to you forever."

She watched as his eyes filled with tears. Excellent; all hope was not lost. Still, she wasn't about to sanction his wallowing, for he had only himself to blame for his predicament.

"Weasley, pull yourself together! Now, how can we best assist Potter?"

"If you were to come out and declare that the Dark Lord has in fact returned and throw the weight of this administration behind Harry Potter, that would be a good start," Percy blurted.

Bones narrowed her eyes. "Continue."

"Well," Percy said, primly folding his hands in his lap, "what I most noticed about Harry during the time we shared at Hogwarts was how he responded to the attacks on him from outside the school."

Bones nodded for him to continue.

"While people like Draco Malfoy – indeed, most of Slytherin House, for that matter – harassed him on a daily basis and, I imagine, continues to bother him, far worse was his reaction to the constant onslaught of the wizarding press to his every word and action."

"He really doesn't like the attention," Amelia mused.

Percy nodded, gritting his teeth. "It is something he is often accused of enjoying and exacerbating, but I have only ever witnessed him being embarrassed by the attention he receives. He eschews it as much as possible."

Tonks scoffed. "So why did you paint him as a belligerent brat demanding everyone's notice?" She smirked. "Perhaps because you knew those were the accusations that would hurt Harry, Ron, and Ginny the most?"

He flushed and didn't respond, keeping his eyes on Amelia's nameplate. "Mister Fudge and Miss Umbridge used _The Prophet_ to destroy what little credibility Harry had left. I believe that were it made clear people in positions of power, other than Dumbledore that is, actually supported him, it would go a long way in his fight against the Dark Lord."

Bones nodded to herself, steepling her fingers and looking out her window. "Agreed."

"But it won't be easy," Percy cautioned. "Rita Skeeter has made it her mission to discredit Harry as well Hermione Granger whenever such an opportunity presents itself." He scowled. "Insufferable cow of a woman."

He startled, shot the Minister a panicked look, and then blushed.

Bones slammed her hand down on her desk. "That's the kind of backbone I'm looking for, Weasley!" she thundered. "Woe that it took this long. As for Skeeter," she smiled predatorily, waving a dismissive hand, "you leave that woman to me."

Tonks raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"This conversation is to go no further than this room," Bones continued. "Is that understood?" She looked first to Percy and then to Tonks, her eyes promising swift action should her edict be ignored.

"Yes, Minister," Percy replied.

"Of course," Tonks agreed, nodding.

"That includes Dumbledore, Auror Tonks," Bones said severely. "I will not allow this office to be used. If I get one whiff that anything said here finds its way into the next meeting of the Order of the Phoenix, not only will you be dismissed from your position with prejudice, but criminal charges of espionage and treason will be filed against all parties involved. Is that quite clear?"

Tonks paled. "Crystal, ma'am."

"Excellent. You both are dismissed."

She looked down at the papers on her desk and said nothing further as Tonks and Percy rushed from the room. When the door closed behind them, Amelia inhaled deeply and slowly released the breath, wondering if she had the wherewithal to pull this off.

Heading the Department of MLE had been grueling but relatively free from the political machine in which she now found herself. She didn't question her integrity or commitment, but was cognizant there were any number of people waiting in the wings for her to stumble so they might press some hidden agenda. She couldn't afford to muck this up; too many people were counting on her to turn back the tide from Fudge's idiocy.

She picked up the letter she received the night prior from Harry Potter and once again scanned its contents.

The media she could control, but Dumbledore was another animal entirely. However, Potter had provided her with some extremely persuasive ammunition. As Potter's reputation had been attacked last year, so too had that of Dumbledore, and while Potter would eventually sway people back in his camp – they were too fearful to do otherwise – Dumbledore's advanced age and his seeming inability to control the goings-on at the school which he administrated had damaged him in the eyes of the people far more than he realized.

Were Potter telling the truth, and she had no doubt that he was, should Dumbledore attempt to corral Potter in any way, there were any number of criminal charges that could be brought against him. Amelia smiled at the thought.

The question was who to trust? Despite Fudge's ousting, the Ministry was still littered with his past appointments, as well as underlings desperate to line their own pockets with the bribes Cornelius had so readily accepted.

She liked Tonks well enough; the woman was competent in her job and her affection for Potter was obviously genuine, but her loyalty to Dumbledore was profound, perhaps even eclipsing that to her career. She was quite certain Weasley was remorseful, but she was unwilling to allow Potter to be his sacrificial lamb in finding his way back into his family's good graces.

She turned swiftly when the fireplace behind her roared to life.

"Amelia!" a voice boomed.

"Ah, Augusta! So good to see you. How are you?"

Lady Longbottom's face appeared in the flames. "Quite well, thank you. And you and your fair niece?"

A fond smile crossed Amelia's lips. "Susan is lovely, thank you. I'm most pleased by her class standing, as I am sure you are with that of young Neville. How is he?"

The unmistakable beam of pride was answer enough. "With each passing day, Neville reminds me more and more of his parents."

Amelia bowed her head to remember Alice and Frank Longbottom and their sacrifice. "That is fantastic. What can I do for you, Augusta?"

"Direct as always," Lady Longbottom acknowledged. "How refreshing." She grinned. "Amelia, I am in receipt of a most interesting letter."

The amused Minister raised an eyebrow and held up her own Potter communiqué. "As am I."

"Wonderful! I think it would behoove us to speak of this in more detail. Perhaps tonight?"

Amelia nodded. "Of course. I would like to invite both you and your grandson to my home, say half past six?"

"Right. See you then."

"Augusta, before you go…"

"Yes?"

"Do you believe him?"

Augusta chuckled. "Oh, Amelia, there's not a doubt in my mind." She disappeared from the flames.

Minister Bones swung her chair back around, her monocle affixed firmly in place, and nodded in satisfaction.

"Nor in mine," she whispered.

So, Potter had reached out not only to her but to Lady Longbottom as well. She wondered as to his other allies. She was sure a Weasley must be amongst them, but who else?

She considered the question as she quickly composed a letter to Susan advising her niece that they would be having guests this evening.

* * *

Cordelia sat back and watched as the others began arguing about how best to accomplish a mission in which only a few believed.

She rolled her eyes as they debated points both major and minor, as well as attempting to convince each other of the efficacy of what they were doing. She looked down at her watch and sighed.

She had refrained from putting in her two cents because she had expected Xander to take them all in a firm grasp, but it appeared that her return had caused him to falter somewhat. She was sad that her mere presence had so shaken his confidence, but more than that, she was pissed off that he had allowed it to happen.

Well, time to take care of that nonsense.

"All of you just shut up!"

They turned as one to stare at her, blinking owlishly. She glared at each of them in turn before her eyes settled on Xander. She then broke out her best Glare of Doom, very pleased when he withered before her. To her surprise and delight, however, he immediately rallied and nodded to her.

"Listen up!" he barked. "This is how it's going to go."

She sat back and smiled, satisfied. She knew Anya would have gotten him there eventually, but who had that kind of time? She was on a schedule.

"Angel and I are out," Xander continued. "We're both on record as having visited Faith in jail and I scoped out their security while I was there. Vampires can be captured on video, so they have footage of Angel as well as of me."

Angel grunted his agreement. He was angry, but Xander's logic was sound.

"Gunn, Wesley, and Cordy are also out. They're known associates of Angel and we can't take the chance that someone in the LAPD hasn't taken notice of them."

"That's true," Kate said, nodding her agreement. "I know I wasn't the only one paying attention. I got the closest, but I know for a fact I was being watched."

Buffy shrugged. "So that leaves the Sunnydale contingent, minus Xander. We can deal."

Xander shook his head. "Sorry, Buff, but you told me yourself that you went with Angel and saw Faith when she turned herself in to Kate."

Her eyes widened. "You can't seriously be considering having _Riley_ walk into that prison," she argued. "Not only should he not have to deal with this, but we have no way of knowing how Faith will react to him!"

"Please don't speak for me," Riley said quietly.

Buffy turned toward him, her eyes searching. "I don't want you to be hurt."

His hand covered hers. "And I appreciate that, but this isn't about me or Faith. It's about Cordelia and whatever the hell is after Angel."

"I didn't know you cared," Angel sneered.

Buffy turned to glare at him.

"Don't be obnoxious," Cordelia snapped at Angel, punching his thigh.

"I don't," Riley barked at the vampire. "I care what happens to the rest of us if something happens to you. In case you forgot what life is like in Sunnydale, we have our hands full. If whatever's after you gets through, what then? We can't control both the Hellmouth and your city."

"Dude's right," Gunn said.

"I'll go," Willow said softly. She cleared her throat before raising her head and meeting their surprised gazes. "I'll go," she said more loudly. "I can do this."

"I know you can, Will," Xander nodded. "I have complete confidence in you."

Willow beamed as Cordelia once again rolled her eyes, this time with Anya joining her.

"But," he added, "I'm worried. Your magic can slip past your control when you're angry, and you have a right to be mad at Faith." He raised a brow. "Not as much as Buffy, Riley, or I do, but if you tell me that you will be able to control yourself completely, I'd like you in on this."

Willow faltered, doubt seeping from her eyes as her teeth began worrying at her lower lip. She didn't like it, but Xander was right. She knew she was powerful, but her magic was new; she was still learning its limits and, more often than not, she messed up. They couldn't afford that now; too much was riding on this and they only had one shot.

She blushed. "Maybe it's not such a good idea," she finally said.

Riley patted her shoulder. "There's nothing wrong with admitting so. As part of a team, the best thing you can do for yourself and your teammates is acknowledging potential problems before they occur. It takes grace, dignity, and courage, but we already knew you possessed those strengths," he grinned, eliciting a beam from Willow.

Cordelia and Anya snorted. Loudly.

"Oh, shut up," Tara scolded them, running her fingers through Willow's hair. "And don't stick out your tongue, sweetie."

Willow abruptly closed her mouth before she could stick out her tongue, causing her teeth to clack together. "You don't know me."

"Uh, yeah," Xander said, giving his best friend the side-eye. "Anyway, from what I was allowed to see for myself, I've made a rough blueprint of the jail." He turned to Kate. "I'd like you to look it over and make any suggestions." She nodded. "As for the actual retrieval, the team will be Riley, Tara, and Anya."

"Me?" Anya asked.

He nodded. "Buffy and Willow probably don't want to admit it, but you're the best under pressure, and when things go wonky, you can come up with several alternative plans at once."

She became smug. Cordelia nodded her approval.

"I learned from the best," Anya chirped, tweaking Xander's nose and laughing when he slapped away her hand.

"Besides," he continued, now blushing, "you'll be able to control Riley and Faith if necessary. Faith won't hurt you because she knows doing so will bring down a load of hurt on her from me."

"What does that mean?" Angel demanded.

"It means that Faith isn't dead because Xander didn't want her dead," Buffy said. "Believe me, there were opportunities both before and during the coma, and I was more than happy to take them." She scowled. "He saw something in her, something I didn't see either because I couldn't or I didn't want to, but I listened. It's only recently that I'm glad I did.

"But trust me, Faith knows how dangerous Xander can be when someone he loves is threatened, and she knows that both Willow and I will back him up without question when it comes to that." She shrugged. "Why do you think she went relatively easy on Cordy last year? Faith has a lot of bravado, but Xander can be very scary when he wants to be."

Cordelia and Willow nodded.

Angel blinked and said nothing.

A slow smirk spread across Cordelia's face. She never thought she'd see the day when Buffy would so blatantly come across for Xander; she was pleasantly surprised.

"Also," Xander added, turning to his girlfriend, "if Tara needs help with the spell, you're really the only one who can do that. It's your spell, after all."

"What spell?" Willow asked. "What do you mean it's Anya's spell?"

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Will, how did you think Anya was able to summon D'Hoffryn all those years ago? She was a witch!"

Startled, a flattered Anya smiled and nodded.

Willow turned toward Buffy and frowned, her eyes narrowed. "Xander told you that," she guessed.

Buffy colored. "Doesn't matter. It's still true."

"But what's the spell?" Willow asked Anya.

Now annoyed, Anya reached into her pocket and withdrew a sheet of parchment. She opened it and smoothed the creases before handing it over to Willow, who blanched.

"Wow. This is…wow. A simulacrum? Really?"

Anya nodded again. "The spell is neither that advanced nor that difficult, really. The problem is the amount of magic required to maintain it. It's constant."

"How we do get around that?" Gunn asked. "Once this is over, Tara will be gone and she can't afford to keep a spell running at that level." He blinked. "And what the fuck is a…whatever that word was?"

"A simulacrum is a rudimentary representation of a person or thing," Angel answered. "It's fashioned in the model's likeness and then animated by magic, and is more effective than a golem."

He frowned. "Gunn's right, though. The level of power required to keep a spell like that running is immense, especially when taken into account that, in order for this to work, the simulacrum will have to be animated for probably several years." He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, looking up at Anya. "Blood magic?"

She nodded. "As a Slayer, Faith is a magical person. Her blood will anchor the simulacrum to this realm and will serve as her substitute. Also, the fact that she will continue to reside in Los Angeles means that she can replenish the spell as need be."

She bit her lip. "Although, I would prefer it if Tara, Buffy, and Willow would consent to use some of their blood as well. The more magic animating it, the more realistic the simulacrum. Tara and Willow can always come back to recharge the spell, but I don't think it will be necessary."

"Not a problem," Buffy said. Willow and Tara nodded, the former somewhat reluctantly.

"What about me?" Xander asked.

Anya smiled and patted his cheek. "You're not magical, honey. I'm not either; not anymore. Wesley could contribute if he so chooses, and were Giles and Joyce here, I'd ask them as well. Dawn's a wild card, and I don't think that's a good idea anyhow. I'm not willing to take any chances where she's concerned while Glory's still running amok like a whirling dervish."

"Agreed," said a grateful Buffy. "Wait, what? You'd ask Mom?"

"Well, of course. You're the Slayer, Buffy. Slayers are only born of Potential Slayers."

Buffy blinked. "_What?_" She turned to Wesley. "Did you know that?"

"No," he answered slowly. "The Council always assumed that the choice of Slayer was random, left up to chance by the spirit animating them."

"That's what you get for assuming," Anya sang.

Wesley glowered at her while Cordelia snickered. He turned to glare at her, but instead burst out laughing.

"What's so funny," she demanded, now royally pissed off as the others began joining in his laughter.

A guffawing Xander saluted her. "All hail, Pippi Longstocking!"

"What?"

She then noticed that her friendly ghost had stopped brushing her hair. A very _bad_ feeling began coursing through her veins. She tentatively reached up to her head with her hands and discovered her tresses were now in two pigtails. Two very crooked pigtails.

"Dennis!"

* * *

Minerva McGonagall stormed into the Headmaster's office, dragging with her a weakly protesting Harry Potter. Luna Lovegood serenely followed, eyes limpid as she stared around the space with undisguised interest.

Dumbledore rose to his feet, eyes twinkling. "Professor McGonagall! Now that we're all here, perhaps you would kindly explain the purpose of this summons."

She coolly regarded him, raising an eyebrow.

Flitwick, Sprout, Pomfrey, and even Snape, their eyes wide, took a step back.

Harry was positively mortified and shot a terrified look toward Luna, who was busy calmly poking at one of Dumbledore's silver instruments with her wand and frowning.

He wanted to hex her into oblivion.

In lieu of a direct answer, Minerva turned to the other Heads of House, inquiring as to whether any of their students had reported unusual detentions assigned and overseen by Umbridge.

"Minerva," Dumbledore interrupted, the twinkle now gone, "what is this about?"

"Well, Dumbledore," she said coldly, refusing to affix even one of his myriad titles to his surname, "I was just wondering if perhaps Madam Umbridge had used her Blood Quill on students other than young Mister Potter here."

Flitwick and Sprout gasped; Pomfrey and Snape scowled.

Dumbledore's eyes widened as he sat back down in his massive chair. He stared at Harry, who was blushing fiercely his eyes trained on the floor. Never had he suspected anything like this and he was furious that the castle itself had not seen fit to inform him of these grievous developments. The castle's protection wards should never have allowed such action, regardless of whether he was in residence as Headmaster or not.

Umbridge had briefly held the title, yes, and thus many of the wards which were responsible for governing the school, but the Founders themselves had created protective wards to guard the students against such assaults, for one never knew when a teacher or other administrative official might misuse their power. The use of a Blood Quill against a student was indeed an assault, far more so than Severus's perverse abuse of the house point system.

"Harry?" he whispered, devastated.

Harry said nothing and McGonagall was far from finished. He winced when she snatched his wrist in her hand and held it up for all to see.

"I must not tell lies," she seethed. "That is what it reads." Color rose high in her face as her blood pressure continued to climb. "Can you even imagine how often he must have been forced to write that line for it to imprint and scar his skin in this manner?" she roared.

Poppy clucked her tongue and bustled over to Harry, all but tossing McGonagall aside as she performed with her wand an impromptu exam, muttering under her breath the entire time. This would not go unpunished, she decided, and if she couldn't aim her wand at that miserable wretch Umbridge, she'd find someone on whom to take out her anger.

"Mister Potter, you should have come to the Infirmary directly after the first assault." She raised an eyebrow. "In fact, I find it doubtful that Miss Granger would not have advised you to do exactly that." His blush was answer enough. "Perhaps you would care to explain to me why, in all of your many visits to my office, I never once saw these scars?"

She turned and glared at Dumbledore. "Scars which never should have been allowed to happen within these walls."

Dumbledore said nothing, but withered slightly under her condemning glare. He would wait and hear the explanation Harry offered.

Seeing that her student was loath to offer any details, Minerva decided to pick up the slack. "The only reason I myself discovered this," she said stiffly, "is because while Mister Potter and I were discussing his course selection in my office, Miss Lovegood encouraged him to inform me of it. When he refused, she canceled the glamour disguising the scars and then told me how they came to be in the first place."

Her eyes bored into those of Luna, who stared back with guileless nonchalance.

"And how is it you became aware of this?" Snape demanded of the girl.

Harry bit his lip and waited to see how Luna would answer. He was hopeful she wouldn't reveal her ability to see through glamours, as that talent was rare and he didn't relish Dumbledore exploiting it.

"Miss Lovegood," Snape snapped.

Luna continued walking around the office, observing all of the treasures it contained. She was fairly certain she detected nargles, but she wasn't quite sure. Crafty little buggers.

"Miss Lovegood!"

Startled, Luna turned around to face the professor. "Oh. Hello."

Snape drew in a ragged breath and rubbed his face with a hand. "How did you become aware of Mister Potter's scar?" he bellowed, each word an increasing decibel.

"Why, it's always been there. Voldemort gave it to him, didn't you know?"

His eyes bulged. "The scar on his wrist!"

"Hm?" she asked. "Oh," she smiled dreamily, "one morning while at breakfast, I was sitting at our table across from Harry, who was sitting at the Gryffindor table, because that's his House, of course, and I suppose he forgot to put the spell on. He looked rather tired, you see, but that could have been from him trying to avoid the chupacabra, as there was one loose in the area around that time. Or perhaps it was that pesky leprechaun who likes to follow Harry about."

She shrugged and twirled a lock of hair around her finger, seemingly oblivious to how angry Snape was becoming.

"Anyway, I saw the light from the candelabrum reflecting off the scars." She sighed wistfully. "It was quite beautiful, really, like a peachy spider web. Oh, but that of a normal spider, of course, not an Acromantula." Her eyes became impossibly wider. "It would be brilliant if Daddy could interview one of those for the next edition of _The Quibbler_." She nodded. "I best speak with Professor Hagrid. Oh, look! Nargles!"

She floated away.

Harry swallowed his snickers as Snape pressed his lips into an angry white line, the other professors staring at Luna with a mixture of confusion and consternation, although he noticed McGonagall and Pomfrey were smirking. He watched as Luna summarily dismissed them all from her thoughts and glided over to the corner to stare up at Fawkes, who regarded her with similar fascination.

McGonagall cleared her throat and glared down at Harry. "Again, I put to you my earlier question, Mister Potter: why did you not inform me of this," she snapped, grabbing his wrist from Pomfrey's hand, "when it occurred?"

He felt the anger rising within him, the frustration of the past year swelling and crashing over every raw nerve: Umbridge, the DA, Fudge, the Ministry, Sirius. Despite the protests of Hermione and Ron, he thought he had been handling things rather well.

Granted, he was often surly and had isolated himself from his friends, in part to avoid a scene like this, when his control was tenuous at best and volatile at worst, hoping to spare them the brunt of his self-loathing and furious emotions.

He knew McGonagall was concerned for him, that her anger was directed at Umbridge and not at him, but the reins were slipping. He felt rather than saw Dumbledore silently urging McGonagall to forgo this line of questioning; he felt Snape's glee at what was his impending eruption.

And he knew it was impossible to stop himself.

"I tried," he seethed, his eyes narrowed as he glared right back at her, yanking his wrist free from her grasp. "More than once, I tried. How many times did I come to you, like you always told me I should, only to be turned away, to be told that I was making things more difficult, to keep my head down and nose out of trouble because I was just feeding more fuel onto Umbridge's fire?"

Minerva paled as her arms fell to her sides, her hands trembling slightly. She felt the blood drain from her face and pool into her feet, which were like blocks of ice.

He was right. He was absolutely right.

He had come to her, several times, most likely for help, and she had shooed him away like an annoying gnat, inadvertently blaming him for whatever troubles he was experiencing, unwittingly reinforcing his belief that he alone was responsible for whatever befell him.

She had always told him that he could come to her, she had tried so hard to instill in him that he could trust her, and the one time he had tried, the one time he believed her words, she had denied him.

She had failed him. Again. As she had in his first year, disregarding his warnings about the Philosopher's Stone.

"Minerva," Dumbledore sighed heavily, his voice dripping with disappointment.

His scolding immediately relighted her ire, but before she could summon the words to castigate him in turn, Harry surprised the entire room by pushing McGonagall behind him, leaping forward, withdrawing his wand and brandishing it against the Headmaster, who paled.

"How dare you!" Harry hissed, only barely able to refrain slipping into Parseltongue, his entire body vibrating with fury. "How _dare_ you blame her? Where were _you_, Professor? Where were you when that…that miserable _bitch_ sauntered in to this castle and proceeded to rip our lives to shreds? You think I was the only who was punished with that Quill? Do you have any idea what that woman did to us all? How she almost destroyed this school and everyone in it?

"No. You disappear with no warning, provide no reason, and then come back with your twinkling eyes and gentle smile, casting blame on the innocent when the only one responsible for all of it is you!"

"Harry," McGonagall murmured. "I appreciate your words in my defense more than you will ever know and they are perhaps more than I deserve, but you must…"

"No! He does whatever he wants, whenever he wants, and then hides behind this nebulous 'greater good' of his. I'm _sick_ of it! I'm sick of him telling me what to do, where to go, how to feel."

He slammed open palms down onto Dumbledore's desk, turning hateful eyes onto startled blue ones as he fought for breath. He wasn't going to allow his temper to give away that which needed to be hidden, but he was going to put Dumbledore on notice once and for all.

"You consigned me to hell for eleven years because it was convenient for you to do so. Let us not pretend otherwise." His glare intensified. "Do you have any idea what those people did to me?" He paused. "Do you even care? I know you have your suspicions, yet you've never asked for confirmation." He smiled and it was poisonous. "I wonder why."

Albus was horrified. What had he done to this boy?

Harry snorted. "You saw fit not to check on me, not even once, for over a _decade_. Then you bring me here, because you had no other choice, because you knew Voldemort would return, because you needed me to defeat him, because you know you are too weak to do so."

Flitwick and Sprout gasped; an intensely curious Snape inched forward.

"I've accepted this as my burden," Harry continued, "as you knew I would, but you will no longer be dictating anything to me. If you try, you will discover how difficult winning a war can be when your primary weapon refuses to fight."

"You are not a weapon, Harry," Dumbledore said gently, "and I care very much about your well-being."

Harry laughed, a horrible sound, like an mistuned piano. "Oh, yes, you care for me, as long as I prove useful."

He shook his head in exasperation. "Just how thick do you think I am, Professor? You _knew_ Hermione would determine what was hidden on the third floor corridor. You _knew_ what I would find in the Forest that night. You _knew_ that I wasn't the Heir of Slytherin, yet you did _nothing _as the whole ostracized and taunted me. You _knew _I didn't enter myself in the Tournament, yet you stood back _again_, watched, and said nothing as the entire school turned against me. You _knew _Sirius was innocent and it was within your power to order him a trial, yet you never did. You _knew_ what was happening to me in those alleged Occlumency lessons."

Harry's eyes shined with absolute furor. "And when every battle arrived at Hogwarts, you yourself were conveniently absent. Did you honestly believe that I was unaware of what you were doing? I knew from first year!"

Dumbledore paled. "Harry, I assure you..."

"The last time the Chamber opened was fifty years ago. You were here then as the Transfiguration professor. You might not be able to speak Parseltongue, but you will never convince me that you didn't know precisely where the entrance to the Chamber was. I find it incredible that, as someone who communes with all the ghosts in this castle, you wouldn't know about Myrtle and how she died, not to mention where and at whose hand."

Dumbledore said nothing and found he was unable to hold Harry's gaze.

"Then in my third year, Sirius was returned to me, but only in name. He was wanted for a crime he never committed and by which time you knew he was innocent, but that point is moot. What I would like to know, Professor, is why the head of the Wizengamot did not demand a trial for the man he knew to be my legal guardian, the best friend of my parents? Why did you not insist that Sirius be questioned under Veritaserum?

"I could perhaps understand you overlooking this necessity after Voldemort's attack on my parents, but by the end of third year, you knew he was innocent. You certainly believed in it enough to encourage me and Hermione _to go back in time _to save him!"

Snape was almost apoplectic by this point and McGonagall's wand had somehow found its way into her hand.

"And let us not waste time debating the ridiculousness of the Tournament, the agony of which you could very well have spared me had you the desire."

"You have to understand…" Dumbledore feebly trailed off.

"I believe I've been more than understanding and for far too long!" Harry snapped. "You say that I am the one to defeat Voldemort, but rather than training me to accomplish this, you dismiss me when I ask questions you would rather not answer. You disappear on mysterious missions which you never explain. You see fit to provide me with information only when you feel I am capable of handling it, when in truth you know there is very little I cannot handle."

Harry smirked. "Do you know what I think? You have no idea what you're doing where Voldemort's concerned. You're operating on nothing more than speculations and suppositions, yet you have no qualms about reordering my life to fit an agenda which might be nothing more than the fancy of a delusional man who is as obsessed with Voldemort as Voldemort is with me."

Flitwick's mouth fell open. Sprout had to cast a silencing spell on herself before she broke out in laughter.

"You have established some ridiculous schedule to which I am supposed to adhere," Harry continued, "when it is _my_ life that is on the line and you are completely ambivalent about those lives lost because of your continued silence. Their names are Cedric Diggory and Sirius Black, in case they slipped your mind. Do you think about them, Headmaster? I do. I see them every night in my dreams. I see them die before me while I am helpless to stop it. You may not have killed them, but neither did you lift a finger to stop their deaths, and you and I both know you had that power."

Harry took a deep breath and calmed himself.

"I will remain at Hogwarts and finish my education – on _my_ terms, thank you, as I am the one who has to pay both literally and figuratively for that alleged privilege. I will defeat Voldemort because I know that, until I do, my friends will never be safe. I fully expect to die and, frankly, death would be a sweet release from the nightmare you have made of my life."

His eyes narrowed. "But don't you ever speak to me again as if we both don't know what has really happened, nor will I participate in any more of your qualifying rounds simply because you wish to determine my mettle. Is that clear?"

Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and made his way across the room.

"I apologize if my tirade has in any way offended or made you uncomfortable," he said to Professors Flitwick and Sprout while noticeably ignoring Snape. "That was not my intention."

He was unsurprised when both professors were too shocked to offer any replies. He nodded to them and crossed to McGonagall.

"Professor, I would suggest that you alert Minister Bones to Umbridge's use of the Blood Quill. I will explain to her the circumstances and will provide the names of the other students she tortured."

Luna appeared at his side, threaded her arm through his, and guided him over to the sofa, where they both sat down. She whispered into his ear, her words lost to those others present.

Dumbledore continued staring at his desk. Until this moment, he'd had no idea how badly he had gambled.

* * *

Viktor Krum studied the pleasant if ordinary house with some small concern.

He still wasn't quite sure about wizarding Britain and how to navigate his way through it, and that obnoxious bus he had boarded was of little to no help. However, the psychotic driver had insisted that this was the correct address and Viktor figured he had no choice but to knock on the door and determine if this was the case.

Merlin, he was nervous, even more so than when he had sat atop his broom and tried to prepare himself prior to competing for the World Cup.

He had no idea about the contents of that which he was about to deliver and was loath to bring even more pain upon its recipients, sure they were still grieving. Still, it had to be done. It was time, overly so, he imagined, and he felt guilty that it had taken him this long to comply.

He didn't like remembering the Tournament and the events surrounding it. He was not ashamed of his behavior or performance, but he regretted that he had consented to enter. Outside of his relationship with Hermione and his surprising friendship with Harry, it had not been a rewarding experience. He cleared his throat and tried to quiet his mind, nodding to himself and straightening his robes. Dithering would accomplish nothing.

He picked up his bag and began walking toward the house, reviewing silently what he would say. His English had improved dramatically due to his correspondence with Hermione, though he knew his accent was still quite thick. Hopefully he would not make a fool of himself.

He sighed and raised his fist to the door, knocking upon it with three short raps. He fought the wave of nausea threatening to overcome him. This was ridiculous, he knew; he was a graduate of Durmstrang, a professional Quidditch player, and had just finished his mastery. He feared very little, yet he was afraid of this house, of the people therein, and their reactions to what he was about to do.

He had waited too long to do this. Whatever dressings these people had applied to their mourning, he was about to rip away. He jumped when he heard shuffling footsteps approach the door and felt his eyes widen preposterously when it swung open. He imagined he looked rather like a startled house elf.

"Yes?" a man asked. "May I help you?" He appeared to recognize Viktor, yet was having difficulty placing him.

"You are Mister Amos Diggory?" Viktor asked, in slow, halting English. He vaguely remembered the man being present before the final task of the Tournament.

"I am Diggory," the man nodded. "And you are?"

"Hello, Mister Diggory. My name is Viktor Krum."

Amos Diggory paled, his lips turning white. He swallowed heavily and plastered a sickly smile on his face. "Yes, of course, Mister Krum. I recognize you now. What is it that I can do for you?"

Silently, Viktor reached into his cloak and withdrew the parchment. He held it up so that the man could read the handwriting, very proud that his hand did not tremble.

"I have a letter for you, sir, from your son."

* * *

Alastor Moody respected Hermione Granger; he respected her intelligence, her bravery, her loyalty, and her proven mettle in the course of battle. Potter was lucky to call her his friend.

However, he was now past all patience and ready to backhand the girl across the Channel.

He had been irritated, though unsurprised, when her incessant interrogation of him had begun the moment her custody had been transferred to him from the exhausted Auror who had been unfortunate enough to be assigned to her care as she rode the Knight Bus from London to Ottery St. Catchpole.

He had been startled to see Krum on the same bus and rather perturbed that Granger had not noticed the young man at all. The fact that Krum had been under a Disillusionment Charm might have had something to do with it, of course, so he was willing to cut some slack to the normally observant girl. He would attempt to discover later the game which Krum was playing.

The Burrow's wards had been strengthened exponentially thanks to the due diligence of the eldest Weasley child, Bill. Moody had no idea what those infernal Goblins really did at Gringotts, but if Bill's casting ability was any indication, he believed the wizarding bank truly _was_ the safest place in Britain. It was now impossible to Apparate within a square mile of the Burrow, so he was helpless but to escort Granger on foot.

At least the girl had the foresight to shrink and stow her trunk under the watchful eye of an Auror while still on the bus. Ridiculous that children were not allowed to practice magic outside the school. They were in the middle of a war, after all, not in the midst of tea with the Queen.

He frowned. He didn't understand why the secrecy laws should apply to Potter and his friends given that, without their interference, there was a real probability that the Ministry would have fallen mere weeks ago. Besides, those who would be sixth years had received their OWLs, which should allow them to practice unrestricted. He suspected Dumbledore's meddling was involved. He would speak with Amelia later.

He was impressed with Granger's ability to keep a swift pace while never losing breath to ask her unending questions. He noted with amusement that she was untroubled by his lack of reply; in fact, other than a cursory greeting, she had not deigned to acknowledge him at all. He was also pleased that her wand was at the ready and her eyes darted about the road and the surrounding woods, searching for any sign of abnormal activity. Constant vigilance, indeed.

He doubted this was merely the influence of Potter. Granger, more than any young person he had met, was her own person. He rather thought the entire Auror corps could stand to learn from her. Of course, who couldn't?

If he issued a command, she followed it immediately, but didn't pause a second in her demand to know all of the information he had on Potter, his whereabouts, his relatives, and the new syllabus for Defense Against the Dark Arts, not caring that he was no longer the professor of the course. There were a host of other questions she posed, but he couldn't keep up with her rapid pace and seeming ability not to require breath.

He felt old.

He was of the mind that the girl deserved answers, for he truly doubted that Potter would have gotten this far without her, so any he could provide that didn't compromise his own conscience, Potter's trust, or Order operations, he freely granted, though all were perfunctory and he knew the girl remained dissatisfied. The subject soon became exclusive to Potter himself, which he had anticipated. Once she had discerned that he had no more knowledge than she about Potter's voluntary exile from all things magical, she proceeded to rant like nothing he had ever seen or heard, lambasting Potter's cavalier, thoughtless, and hurtful attitude.

"Merlin's balls, Granger!" he finally thundered. "If this is how you treat Potter when he's in your company, it's no wonder he's not owling you!"

He shook his head. "In case you had forgotten, the boy led a group of underage, undertrained wizards and witches into a ministerial department of which most people have never heard, let alone understand, where he watched the Weasley girl and Longbottom attacked, where he watched you almost die, and where he was taunted and tortured by that sociopathic bitch LeStrange!"

His magical eye scanned the area restlessly. "And let us certainly not forget that he was possessed by the Dark Lord and watched as his beloved godfather was murdered by the man's own cousin." He turned to face her. "Merlin forbid he take some time to himself and attempt to wrap his head around the fact that he has lost another link to his dead parents – and his proper legal guardian, mind – almost lost his best friend, blames himself for all the injuries you lot sustained, and was yet again attacked by his _mortal enemy_! If he doesn't feel the need to check in with you every time he takes a piss, what of it? Grow up!"

Moody gave her credit for not bursting into tears or scowling and launching a tirade, pleased when she became contemplative and the telltale blush of embarrassment began creeping up her neck. He nodded his approval.

Hermione frowned.

_Proper_ legal guardian? Well, yes, Sirius had been Harry's legal guardian by virtue of being named godfather but, as a wanted fugitive, he had been unable to act in that capacity. She was sure, however, that Moody was trying to tell her something, his words precise yet carefully veiled.

Proper.

What did that mean, exactly?

In her opinion, it could be argued that Sirius had been named by the Potters via their will as Harry's legal guardian. She herself had never seen the will, nor had Harry spoken of it, but she highly doubted that parents who were being actively hunted by a serial killer and had gone under the Fidelius would not have made plans for their only child in the event of their deaths.

Hermione gnawed on her lip.

Why hadn't she thought about this before?

Further, it was suspect that James and Lily Potter would not have named backup guardians for Harry, given the fact that their best friends were also wanted by Voldemort. Of course, Remus wouldn't have been allowed to serve as godfather either, his lycanthropy precluding him from fulfilling that role. And it was inconceivable that Lily Evans Potter – considered the brightest witch of her age – was ignorant of her sister Petunia's prejudices of all things magical, so it would stand to reason that Lily would not have entrusted her only child to Petunia's care…

She gasped.

Moody raised an eyebrow and stared down his nose at her.

Hermione's lips thinned, pressed together so tightly they all but disappeared.

Dumbledore, of course. It had to have been. Only he would have the audacity and the questionable authority to place Harry with the very last people his parents would have wanted to raise him, not to mention the ability to keep Harry off the magical radar for a decade.

And if _she_ had been able to put all of this together in the space of a moment, than it was logical to assume that Harry…

She growled low in her throat.

_Now_ it made sense why Harry was staying away. Yes, she was sure he felt guilty that she had been attacked by Dolohov; that Ginny, Ron, and Luna had been injured, no matter how slightly; that they had been there at all; that Sirius had died; that it was all a machination of Voldemort's design. Regret and self-recrimination were Harry's constant companions, but terrible things had happened before and Harry had not removed himself so completely from their lives.

But if he suspected Dumbledore had been manipulating things – and it was with sad irony that her mind quickly proposed several other possible scenarios for which Dumbledore might have been accountable – it was no wonder Harry was refusing contact. And how in the world had she not put these pieces together before?

Damn it!

She was supposed to be _intelligent_, not some simpering schoolgirl who fawned over other people!

And Harry knew Dumbledore was watching them all: Harry, Ron, and she herself.

Harry was trying to _protect_ them.

_Idiot_, was her first thought, which quickly faded and was replaced with a suffusing warmth of exasperated fondness. _Stupid, wonderful boy_.

And obviously Moody was in on it, she realized. He couldn't say anything without violating Harry's trust and Dumbledore's confidence. But, then, on whose side was he?

Oh, _Merlin_. Not another side!

She sighed and grimaced at Moody, who replied with a bland look.

At the noticeable lack of any noise whatsoever, they turned their eyes forward and noted they were standing before the open door of the Burrow, where they were being observed with wide eyes.

Molly Weasley was scandalized; Ginny began snickering, which set off the twins; Bill was unusually solemn, which made Fleur laugh; Ron decided he had absolutely no questions for Mad-Eye Moody regarding Harry Potter.

"Alastor Moody!" Molly roared. "That is no way to speak to a lady!" She crossed the threshold, pushed him aside, wrapped an arm around Hermione's shoulders, and led the girl into the house. "Welcome, dear," she said gently, "we're so glad you were able to join us!"

"You are?" asked a befuddled Hermione.

Moody rolled his magical eye at Molly's scolding, which only made Ginny and the twins laugh that much harder. He followed several paces behind, in search of any potential threat. Word was, there a ghoul who lived in the attic. Nasty business, ghouls.

Hermione was now hopelessly confused by Molly's overt solicitousness. Yes, Molly had always been cordial, but their relationship had been rather reserved since those ridiculous articles printed about her and Harry during their fourth year. She watched with wide eyes as Molly scurried about to enlarge her bags, which were then banished to Ginny's room, inquire after her parents, her own health in the wake of the events at the Ministry, her summer schoolwork, and any number of other things, the sheer volume of which soon had Hermione feeling overwhelmed.

In the middle of all of it, Molly had somehow managed to make tea and scones for everyone, the refreshments appearing on the dining table.

Hermione did her best to answer any and all questions, shooting Ron looks of utter incredulity, discomforted when Ron appeared as lost as she herself was.

Moody, amused by the entire situation, rightly guessed that Potter had taken Molly Weasley to task about the importance of one Hermione Granger. Any third party could see the three of them would not be parted for anything, and certainly not by a parent's sense of propriety.

Well, good for Potter. It said a lot about a young man who went to such lengths to protect his friends. It also suggested that Molly Weasley was more of a player in this than that for which she was given credit. He suppressed a chuckle.

Oh, Potter was good, _so_ good. He couldn't wait to see what else the boy had planned! But now he had to press his own agenda.

"Right then," he barked, "you lot should be made aware that Potter was attacked this morning in Diagon Alley."

The explosion was, of course, immediate and predictable.

"What was Harry doing away from his relatives?" Hermione demanded, now furious that Moody had not seen fit to impart to her earlier this news. "What about those precious blood wards of Dumbledore's, eh?" she sneered.

Molly gave the girl an appraising look. Moody smirked.

"But Harry was with me this morning at the bank," Bill argued, his eyes narrowing. "When did this happen?"

"What was he doing with you?" Ron trilled.

"I was ravishing him in one of the private offices under the direction of the Goblins," Bill replied, rolling his eyes, sending Fleur into gales of laughter as everyone else turned to stare at him. "Honestly," he sighed, "it was Gringotts business." He turned to glare at his youngest brother and Hermione. "And none of yours."

Hermione went red in the face from anger, but Ron, startled by his brother's unusually snappish response, paled and backed up several steps, dragging Hermione with him and whispering furiously into her ear. Whatever he said was lost to the rest, but served to calm her down.

The twins thought it best not to mention their visit with Harry, and if Hermione and Ron's jealous response was any indication, they now understood why he had admonished them not to mention Luna Lovegood. They were curious, however, as to why Harry had not told them he had earlier met with Bill. Surely Harry hadn't needed to consult with a curse-breaker merely to retrieve some Galleons from his vault.

"Oh dear," Molly fretted, preparing to whip herself up into an hysterical mothering frenzy the likes of which the world had never seen, "was it Death Eaters?"

"No," Moody scowled, "just your average run-of-the-mill fools in all their obnoxious glory." He shook his head. "Potter was spotted outside of Flourish and Blotts by ordinary shoppers, who proceeded to harass and maul him when he declined to give autographs or speak of Voldemort."

He again rolled his magical eye when several present flinched at the name.

"Is Harry all right?" whispered a now tearful Hermione.

"Aye," Moody nodded, "he's fine now. Tonks healed his wounds."

"Wounds!" Ron exploded. "What did those sick bastards do to my Harry?"

He was incognizant of the curious glances sent his way by Fleur and George at his possessive phrasing. Ginny and Hermione were careful not to look at Ron, while Bill and Fred weren't even paying attention. Molly glared at Fleur and George, a silent bid to ensure their mouths stayed closed. She wasn't yet entirely sure how she felt about Ron's relationship with Harry, whatever that might have been or whatever her son might wish was between them – as well as Hermione, for that matter – but she would not stand to see him questioned or ridiculed for it. In that spirit, she let his language slide.

"They roughed him up a bit," Moody gruffly admitted. "Now that Fudge is gone and a woman of sense has assumed office, the tide has changed and the general public believes Voldemort has returned, even if the blasted _Prophet_ has not seen fit to comment on it. The public sees Potter as their only hope and the only answers they want are his."

He clucked his tongue and shook his head at the stupidity of the populace. He then laughed.

"Anyone who ever wondered how Tonks got her job got their answer today. Bloody brilliant, she was, stunning people left, right, and sideways, threatening to throw the lot of them into Azkaban and rustle up some Dementors just for funsies."

"Go Tonks!" the twins cheered.

"She let Potter finish his business and then Apparated him to Hogsmeade," Moody finished. "I assume he is now at Hogwarts."

Hermione grabbed Ron's hand. "That's where we need to be," she said.

Ron nodded and they made for the fireplace.

"No you don't!" Molly screamed. She sighed as Ron and Hermione flinched. "I'm sorry, I should not have yelled, but you two are behaving toward Harry exactly like those people in Diagon Alley. I understand that you love him and want him with you, but he is entitled to his privacy, even from his friends."

She raised an eyebrow. "As his friends, I should hope you would respect that."

Hermione deflated and nodded sadly, but Molly noted with displeasure that Ron's stubborn streak was about to rear its ugly, pointed head.

"Ronald," she began severely, "I do not agree with the way Alastor spoke to Hermione, but he made very valid points. Harry is dealing with an awful lot right now and we need to give him time to process everything he has been through. I know you miss him; I do, too. I would like nothing more than to have him here with us and, as soon as he asks, I'll go fetch him myself and I don't give a whit what Dumbledore has to say about it. If it will make you feel better, I will contact the Headmaster later and inquire after Harry's condition but, for the love of Merlin, let the boy alone."

Moody grinned at Molly's words, noting with glee that she had said she would get Harry as soon as the boy himself asked; Dumbledore was no longer a consideration. Oh, he so wanted to see _that_ showdown. A feeling of utter bliss swirled about his head.

Ron scowled and stomped over to the sofa, throwing himself down atop it. "No one tells me anything. I'm always the last to know."

"Drama queen," Fred whispered to George.

"Oh, stop _whining_, Ron!" barked a cross Ginny as Hermione rolled her eyes and shook her head.

"Potter will be fine. At least he's not alone," Moody said. "The Lovegood girl is with him."

"What!" Ron and Hermione thundered.

Ginny frowned.

Bill raised an eyebrow.

Fleur smirked.

The twins eyed each other before Fred then conjured a box of popcorn.

* * *

Anya twirled about Cordelia's living room. "What do you think?"

"I think I've discovered a new fantasy," a happy Xander sighed. "But you need some beakers or test tubes or something." He nodded. "You know, to complete the look."

She smirked, ignoring the mutterings of the others and smoothed the lapels of the overly-starched lab coat before adjusting the glasses. She didn't like the frames, but at least the lenses were regular glass. The pleated skirt was a bit snug, but she liked that. It was impossible for clothes to be too tight, in her estimation.

The silk blouse was lovely and she determined then and there that Cordelia would not be getting back that particular item. She placed a barrette between her lips and hastily drew her hair into a chignon. She was wearing more makeup than usual, but Cordelia explained that wearing more than was necessary made her look older than wearing none at all.

It was all very confusing, but she was fairly sure that Cordelia knew what she was talking about.

"Why do you have so many costumes in your closet?" Buffy demanded of Cordelia, who rolled her eyes.

"I'm an actress. They're for auditions. Duh."

Buffy's brow furrowed. "Oh."

"Cordy's Closet," Xander said, furrowing his brow. "Sounds like a porn movie."

Cordelia smiled. "Well, you would know."

He blushed and fell silent.

"Are you sure this will work?" asked a worried Angel.

Anya frowned. Okay, she had been a pretty good sport about all of this. She had encouraged Xander to leave Sunnydale and care for Cordelia. She herself had schemed and plotted to ensure the survival of her boyfriend's ex, a woman with whom she knew Xander still to be in love. She had put up with Willow and Buffy for two years just for the sake of Xander's happiness. But Angel had crossed a line, and now she was pissed.

As far as she was concerned, Angel was useless. Sure, he did some good, but if he got staked, the Powers would get themselves a new Champion the next day. She knew of the reputation of Angelus long before she had ever stepped foot on the Hellmouth and had borne witness to the path of savagery the Scourge had cut across Europe. She knew what Angelus had done during his last emergence and she knew that, eventually, he would find his way out again.

She herself didn't subscribe to the comfort of a soul curse in the manner of Buffy and Willow. The soul may have created Angel, but it didn't negate the presence of Angelus. In reality, it was Angel who was the curse of Angelus, not the other way around, the way Buffy and Willow had romanticized it.

For whatever mysterious reason, Xander was willing to put up with Angel during this mission, but she wasn't. She didn't know him, didn't like him, had never been in love with him, and owed him nothing. Not only was he a vampire, the lowest of the low in terms of demon classification, but he was male and thus doubly worthless.

Right. It was time to punch his ticket in.

"Are you doubting my ability to portray someone of intelligence?" she demanded. "Do you find it impossible that I could present myself as someone knowledgeable of scientific principles and the study of psychology? I, who have lived over one thousand years, who have seen races rise and fall, the collapse of entire civilizations?" She snorted. "Get serious." She then scowled. "Uppity vampires. They live a century or three and think they know everything."

Gunn burst out laughing as Angel backed up a step.

"I wasn't trying to offend you," he said quietly. "I just think it makes more sense for Riley to play this part, given the fact that he actually _has_ an advanced degree in psychology."

"Riley is the token penis of this expedition," Anya sniffed. "As such, he is to protect both Tara and myself. He is strong and virile, with many muscles. He has military training. It only makes sense that he act as our bodyguard, for one will be expected given that we are heading to a prison. He also looks the part and is very gallant and commanding."

Angel wisely offered no opinion on this declaration.

Riley said nothing, continuing to lace up his boots, though his cheeks were flushed.

Buffy watched him with amusement. It was obvious that Anya had a crush on Riley, and she suspected Riley had one on both Anya and Xander. She supposed she should have been angry or jealous but, in truth, she found the whole thing _endlessly_ adorable.

Of course, should the mutual crush proceed beyond certain boundaries, then action would be required. For now, however, watching Xander and Riley blush while pointedly ignoring each other as Anya shamelessly flirted with both of them was too endearing to halt, as well as providing her with future blackmail material.

"Let's run through it again," Willow suggested.

Anya nodded. "I am Doctor Margaret Forrest, junior psychologist with the Initiative, a joint operation between the United States Marine Corps and the National Institutes of Health. I am interviewing subject Faith Lehane as part of my post-doctoral research on the increasing rate of urban violence committed by young women."

She nodded to Tara. "This is my research assistant, Joyce Osbourne, who will be recording the interview. Also with me is Lieutenant Graham Miller, who is functioning as our personal protection and official representative of the military." She beamed.

Cordelia nodded. "Very good."

"I'm worried about the names," Buffy said.

"They can't use their real names, of course," Cordelia patiently explained, "and it's easier to remember aliases if they're based in part on the names of people who they actually know."

Buffy looked up at Riley, who was now shoving things into his bag. "What about Graham?"

He shook his head. "Graham's on assignment in Belize. I doubt they'll check, but if they do, he'll cover for us."

She nodded warily.

Tara raised an eyebrow at Willow. "Our badges?"

"I'm just finishing them up now," the witch replied, making final touches on her laptop screen before sending the files to Cordelia's printer. She jumped up, ran to her bag, and withdrew a small laminator.

"Have you all done this before?" asked a suspicious Kate.

Willow, Buffy, and Xander looked at each other before turning wide eyes on Kate.

"No," they chorused.

She shook her head and laughed, crossing to Xander. "I've added to your blueprint. You'll find additional cameras you didn't spot during your visit, as well as three exits which are unknown to any but personnel. Attached is a roster of personnel you would do best to ensure your team doesn't encounter." She raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure Willow can call up their files, including pictures, via the very illegal yet useful backdoor she somehow has established in the LAPD's firewall."

He praised her profusely, to the point where it crossed the line straight into flirting, causing her to blush. Of course, being that Xander was so irrepressibly _Xander_, he was completely oblivious to this. Cordelia, Buffy, and Anya watched with amusement. Xander finally finished his babbling and passed the map to Riley, who nodded, and the personnel list to Willow, who saluted him.

Anya was very jealous that she had not yet been saluted by anyone and proceeded to declaim this quite loudly.

Buffy exhaled. "Okay. Phase Two?"

Willow nodded, handing out the badges to Tara, Anya, and Riley. "I'll be outside in Riley's Jeep. I'll hack the mainframe at approximately zero-nine-hundred and take the security cameras offline. Tara will have approximately two minutes and thirty seconds to cast the spell and create the simulacrum."

She frowned and consulted her notes. "Then Tara will cast this charm of Anya's onto Faith, which should make it so no one can see her. If she needs my help, I'll be close enough that she can draw on my power. Faith should be able to walk right out with the others." She looked up at Anya. "What is this spell, anyhow?"

"It's called a disillusionment spell. It doesn't make you completely invisible, more like transparent. No one will be able to see Faith unless they're truly looking for her, and with the simulacrum in her place, it shouldn't be a problem. And, like you said, if Tara needs extra power, you'll be nearby for her to call on, but I really don't think it will be an issue."

"This is very risky," Angel sighed.

"It's what we're doing," Cordelia said flatly, shrugging. "It's our best bet. If it goes wrong, Tara can cast the charm on all of them and they can get the hell out of there. Good luck to the cops trying to track down transparent people with phony credentials."

"What if the Initiative gets wind of this?" Kate asked.

Riley shrugged. "Unofficially the Initiative no longer exists. Officially it never did. They might suspect me of being involved, and therefore Buffy as well, but they learned the hard way about what we do and they're not anxious to go against the Slayer and her friends again. We know where all the bodies are buried – literally – and they don't know who else we've told. Not to mention they just don't have the ability to control Buffy; the most they can do is keep her drugged."

"And what if they just decide to kill her?" Angel snapped.

"They won't, because they have no knowledge of what a Slayer truly is other than myths told to them by former HSTs, which are varying and therefore unreliable. They're not even sure Buffy _can_ be killed. She died once but is still here, and they don't know why. Xander's involvement in her resurrection is unknown to them.

"They also know a second Slayer is already in existence and they won't take the chance that killing Buffy won't create another, one even more unpredictable about whom they have no knowledge. They're unsure as to the true power of the Council and the extent of their holdings, and they're unaware that Buffy is no longer allied with the Council but they don't know whether the Council is aware of _them_ via Buffy."

"And they have no idea how to handle witches," Xander added. "Their testing on human subjects was confined to werewolves and after the episode with Oz, Walsh got so much flack from her superiors, human testing was banned. Willow and Tara are well beyond them, and they know it." He looked down at the floor. "I've thought about all of this, Angel. I wouldn't risk my friends needlessly."

"We know that, Xander," Tara said.

Buffy, Riley, Anya, and Willow all nodded.

"It's just so many variables," Angel said softly.

"No more so than what we're up against every single goddamn night," Gunn grunted.

"Angel, I know that you wish to take part in this scenario and I understand that you are worried for all parties involved," Wesley said, "but the bottom line is that this is being done to help Cordelia and, by extension, you. That's the end of it."

Angel grimaced and fell silent.

"What will the rest of you be doing?" Tara asked.

Cordelia sighed. "Packing up my stuff and getting ready for my departure, as well as trying to deal with Dennis." She looked up at the ceiling. "I get that you're mad, Dennis and I wouldn't be leaving if it wasn't absolutely necessary, but I'll die if I stay here. As much as I like you, I'm not yet ready to be joining you in the afterlife." She waited a moment and then looked at the others, shrugging. "He's pouting."

"Well, he'll have company soon enough," Gunn said.

Her eyes narrowed. "What does that mean?"

He blinked. "Isn't Faith going to live here?"

Cordelia's eyes widened. "I did _not_ agree to _that_." She shook her head furiously. "If you think for one minute that I'm leaving _my_ apartment and _my_ ghost in _her_ slutty hands, think again."

"Where is she to live?" asked a confused Wesley.

She stared at him and raised a brow, her judgment of his stupidity complete. "Not my problem, but I assumed at the hotel with Angel. I sure as hell don't like that option either, any more than Buffy does, I'm guessing, but I don't trust Faith enough to be out of Angel's sight for one minute. And with her staying at the Hyperion rent-free, I suggest Angel makes her get a job. Since he won't be paying me my pittance of a salary, he can keep up the rent on my apartment. Eventually, I _will_ be back. I fought too hard for this place to let it go now."

Buffy hesitantly agreed. "The only reason I'm involved at all is because Faith will be under Angel's watch. She has to stay with him. He's the only one strong enough to contain her." She sighed. "Look, Xander and Angel say she's changed - fine - but as far as I'm concerned, Faith is still a wild card and we really have no idea how she'll react to being out. Angel should be able to keep her in check, but I'm going to be monitoring the situation, as will Giles."

"And what is it you think Giles can do?" Angel snidely asked.

Buffy raised an eyebrow. "Faith is scared of him. She respects him as a Watcher and wishes he had been her own. She also knows how far he'll go to protect me. You tell her that Giles will be keeping an eye on her and I can almost guarantee she'll toe the line." Her lips curved into a feline smile. "And if Giles isn't a threat, why did Angelus try so hard to remove him from my side?"

"Ha!" Xander cried.

Angel scowled. "Shut up, both of you."

"Testy, uppity vampires," Anya groused.

* * *

Susan Bones sighed and gently laid aside the letter from her aunt. She was pleased that Neville and his grandmother would be joining them for dinner, even if the latter was, frankly, rather terrifying. She didn't know Neville well but, when their paths had crossed, she had determined him to be a genuinely kind and decent boy who was always unfailingly polite if a bit skittish. Given the fact that he had joined Harry Potter at that assignation at the Ministry, however, perhaps Neville was finally growing into his Gryffindor heritage.

She stood up from her desk and glanced over at her nightstand, frowning. She had never before been the recipient of so much mail in her life, especially from people she didn't know or whose acquaintance could hardly be called familiar. She supposed the uncomfortable feeling was somewhat akin to that which Harry experienced on a daily basis. She shuddered.

She was justifiably proud of her aunt for being named the interim Minister, but the appointment had brought about with it a deluge of requests and offers of friendship from people whose intentions could only be called dubious. She knew they were hoping that some relationship with her would garner them favor with her aunt, but she was not about to be used for her name or connections, nor would her aunt ever tolerate such nonsense. She picked up the letters and tossed them into the rubbish bin.

Honestly. As if she wished to hear anything Draco Malfoy had to say.

"Little ferret," she grumbled.

She didn't really know Harry any better than she did Neville, but she had formed a speculative opinion about him over the past five years; while Hufflepuffs were gregarious with their own, they were more watchful of those of other houses. She knew Harry was brave, if rash; kind, if distant; and more intelligent than most realized. She knew that he, like both Neville and herself, was an only child who had lost his parents during the first war.

She had been raised by her aunt, thankfully, and Neville by his grandmother, but she knew nothing about Harry's life away from Hogwarts, save that he lived with Muggles when school was not in session. She had heard whispers of the sort of people they were, but as everything was unsubstantiated rumor and she was not one prone to idle gossip, she dismissed them, though she was curious.

Indeed, she was very curious about Harry Potter.

She reclined on her bed and crossed her legs at the ankle, staring up at the yellow canopy stretched atop her bed, considering that which she did know of him.

His two best friends were Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. Ron she had known since childhood, mostly through Ministry functions and mutual friends. She liked him well enough, she supposed, though found him to be obtuse on occasion and rather belligerent. Little was known about Hermione outside of Gryffindor, save her incredible intelligence and her devotion to Harry. She was still unsure why Hermione had not been placed in Ravenclaw – where she clearly belonged and where her intellect would have been a badge of honor for that house – but instead in Gryffindor.

Oh, she had little doubt of Hermione's courage, but it was painfully embarrassing to witness how the Gryffindors treated her. They were full of pride and adoration when her actions brought fame and house points, but ridiculed her when someone of another house received a higher grade or she was bullied by an insolent brat like Malfoy.

Susan frowned. She supposed Harry and Hermione were very much alike in that regard: loved when it suited, despised when it was convenient.

She closed her eyes and let her mind drift.

The gossip surrounding Harry and Hermione – often perpetuated by their own house, no less! – had been circulating ever since he had saved her from that mountain troll in first year. While Susan herself did not engage in gossip, she _did_ pay attention to it. Her aunt had told her often that there was usually some kernel of truth in rumor and it was always wise to be aware of the intentions of the people who surrounded you.

Of course, said rumor also speculated with regard to Ron Weasley.

Harry and Hermione were frequently believed to be dating, with Ron somewhere in the mix. It was assumed that all three were involved with each other, but split off on occasion, which was why they rowed so often. Now that she considered it, Susan realized that from what she had directly witnessed, Harry and Hermione in fact argued very little. Harry and Ron argued on occasion – huge fights which echoed throughout Gryffindor tower – but usually blew over in a couple of days.

Ron and Hermione, however, fought frequently, which some mistakenly offered as proof of some volatile romantic relationship. So, depending on the month or the class or the _whatever_, Harry was either involved with Hermione or Ron or both of them.

She snorted. She found it absurd that three people her own age were engaging in some sort of illicit union right under the nose of Minerva McGonagall. The very thought of the stern professor not only being cognizant of but _tolerating_ such a relationship was laughable.

In truth, she doubted that any of them were involved; not seriously, at any rate. Harry had briefly dated Cho Chang last year and Hermione had been escorted by Viktor Krum to the Yule Ball in fourth year. Outside of that, however, it was rare that the trio were seen in the company of anyone but each other. Indeed, they preferred it that way, which only egged on the speculation.

She sighed and rolled onto her stomach.

Harry Potter was an enigma, one she found she wished to unravel. She knew that Voldemort was gaining power and that, eventually, there would be some kind of final battle, most likely at Hogwarts. She didn't understand the belief that Hogwarts was the safest place in wizarding Britain given that Voldemort had managed to infiltrate it one way or another for the past five years. If it was not possessed or Polyjuiced professors, it was possessed diaries or ridiculous tournaments. How did Dumbledore expect students to feel safe within its walls? Ludicrous.

She had been one of the first people who had signed up for the Defense Association after learning from her aunt that Harry could produce a corporeal Patronus, and she prayed he would continue the secret lessons this year. These were dangerous times, and she recognized that with her aunt in power, it was more likely than not that the Bones family would be targeted once again. She was determined that what befell her parents would not happen to her. She was a Hufflepuff, after all.

Many failed to recognize the importance of Hufflepuff House, dismissing its residents out of hand because they had not the cunning of Slytherin, the courage of Gryffindor, or the intelligence of Ravenclaw, but those people were wrong. Hufflepuffs embodied _all_ of those qualities, but tempered them with kindness and wisdom.

Zacharias Smith was an aberration, the exception rather than the rule. Susan desperately wanted ten minutes alone with the Sorting Hat to demand why the hell it had cursed her House with that wanker.

Hufflepuffs were brave like Gryffindors, but not brash, and while they had a thirst for glory, it was one that could only be slaked by glory for them all, not just one. It was why they had rallied so fervently behind Cedric Diggory, not because he was the best of them, but the best of the school.

And true to his nature, Cedric had insisted that his House not denigrate Harry during the course of the tournament. He had not demanded that they support Harry equally, but he refused to allow members of his own house to wear those ridiculous badges Malfoy had conjured. In the end, Cedric had argued, regardless of whether he or Harry won, the glory would belong to Hogwarts.

He also expressed his belief that Harry had not entered his name in the Goblet of Fire, which anyone with half a brain should have figured out for themselves. One need only look at Harry during the course of that year, and it was obvious that the boy was terrified, participating only because he was compelled by a magical bond.

Which made no sense whatsoever, for how could Harry be forced to compete under threat of the loss of his magic when – regardless of whether he had submitted his name – he was not of legal age to enter into a binding contract? It was tantamount to magical rape, Susan felt, and her aunt had agreed.

Hufflepuffs were not the brightest, but they were the most studious and hardworking. Ravenclaws competed with each other for grades, while Hufflepuffs sought to ensure that every member of their house did well in their classes; while a Hufflepuff might not be first in their year, there were none who were in the bottom half. They held study groups, had peer mentors, and often conferred with the older students over concepts which eluded them.

The pomposity of Ravenclaws was only tolerated because there was no denying that its students were brilliant. In the end, however, they had been outmatched by Hermione Granger, a Gryffindor. Susan wondered how Padma Patil would fare when they returned in September. She felt there would be some members of Ravenclaw who would castigate the girl for not overtaking Granger during the OWLs.

She herself didn't understand that kind of rivalry, where the pursuit of knowledge was somehow secondary to the speed with which it was attained.

Susan smirked and reveled in the _knowledge_ that the entirety of Ravenclaw was most likely furious that Luna Lovegood was the first in her class for her year. Given the way the entire house shunned her, Susan assumed it was only a matter of time before the Ravenclaws tried to worm their way into Luna's good graces. Not that it would matter, of course, for Luna was truly uncaring as to what others thought of her.

Susan herself wished she had that self-possessed a nature. She thought it atrocious the way Luna was treated, but the girl just shrugged it off, as if it hadn't occurred to her to be offended or hold a grudge, and was pleasant to everyone. The behavior of the Ravenclaws toward Luna was not something that would ever be tolerated in Hufflepuff, for which Susan was proud and relieved.

She was not of the opinion that every Slytherin was evil; the idea was ridiculous. People tended to erase those portions of history which they found uneasy, and while it was true that Voldemort was of Slytherin, the last Dark Lord, Grindelwald, had been a Gryffindor.

The problem with Slytherin, as she saw it, was that it was loudmouths like Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson who often took center stage of Slytherin House. They were rude and unpleasant people and, because of their grandstanding, others thought them representatives of Slytherinrather than the exception.

Her experience with Slytherins was limited, granted, in part because most of her classes were held jointly with Ravenclaw, but she had always found Blaise Zabini and Millicent Bulstrode to be rather neutral. They weren't outgoing by any stretch of the imagination, but neither were they cruel; they kept their distance from everyone, including their own house members. Daphne Greengrass had never been anything but polite and cordial with her.

And there was something to be said for cunning, which was distinct from intelligence. There was nothing inherently bad about knowing the system and how best to work within it. It was all a question of ethics.

Hufflepuffs strived to be an amalgamation of all the houses, as the Sorting Hat had been suggesting for generations: they were loyal like Gryffindors, but theirs was a not a blind loyalty and they preferred the virtues of people over the merits of ideas; they were intelligent but, unlike Ravenclaws, they understood that knowledge was more than a recitation of facts – what truly mattered was how one implemented those facts; they were cunning like Slytherins, but sought to improve the system rather than manipulate it.

She was proud of her House and her people but dismayed by how many chose to remain on the sidelines of the coming war, overly cautious, rather than firmly announce themselves as allies of Harry Potter – or even of Voldemort, for that matter. She didn't understand how people could see their world fall down around them and do nothing but wait to see who emerged the victor, and she was no longer willing to abide it.

She had been regarded since first year as the _de facto_ leader of her class within her house. Perhaps it was time to lead by example.

* * *

Willow was endlessly annoyed that Tara had had the audacity to call shotgun and was left with little choice but to climb into the backseat of Riley's jeep and sit next to an equally perturbed Anya. She understood full and well what Tara was doing, or at least suggesting, and while Willow didn't necessarily hate Anya, they sure weren't going to become bosom buddies anytime soon.

Sighing, she strapped herself in and glared sullenly out the window.

Tara and Riley exchanged amused glances and settled in for a long ride.

Anya glared at all of them before reaching into her purse and withdrawing a small ancient book and proceeded to thumb through it carefully, ignoring everyone.

Riley was downing coffee like it was nectar. He was fortunate that the elixir didn't affect him the way it did everyone else.

Well, mainly like Buffy and Xander.

Buffy and Xander bounced like kangaroos without coffee; with it, they were like manic, apoplectic spider monkeys who climbed on everything and everyone.

For him, coffee was a soothing balm and his nerves were already frayed from lack of sleep.  
Of course, none of them had gotten much sleep the past few days and tensions were running abnormally high. Thankfully, Cordelia and Xander had taken everyone in hand, and Buffy and Angel were following their lead. His lips quirked.

It was actually rather pleasant that all of them were getting along as well as they had been. He wasn't going to be Angel's number one fan anytime soon, but he liked Gunn and Kate. He hadn't yet spent much time with Wesley, so he didn't have an opinion as to the former Watcher, but the man appeared knowledgeable and a decent enough sort. He certainly wasn't looking forward to seeing Faith again, but she was needed and he respected that.

Besides, soon enough, he would be back in Sunnydale and things would return to normal. Well, as normal as things could be.

He had a feeling that Buffy had cottoned on to his crush, or crushes. And how embarrassing was it to be a twenty-five year old man who had an infatuation with his girlfriend's very _male_ best friend and that man's girlfriend? Jesus.

But Xander was _so cute!_

He shivered, shook his head, and absently flipped on the radio.

"Ooh!" Willow cooed. "I like this song! Turn it up, please!"

Tara and Riley shared another Look. It beat the looming silence, they supposed. She shrugged, he sighed and complied, and the music got louder.

A cheerful Willow proceeded to murder with aplomb a once-pleasant pop song. Horrified, Riley turned to a nodding, knowing Tara.

"She's tone deaf," she quietly confided.

"Gee. I never would have guessed."

he smirked.

"_Come on, baby, let's get away_," Willow tunelessly shrieked. "_Let's save your troubles for another day._"

Riley and Tara were then horrified when Anya gamely began singing along. In imperfect harmony.

"_Come go with me, we've got it made. Let me take you on an escapade._"

"_Let's go!_" Willow and Anya chorused.

They looked at each other with bright smiles and increased their volume.

"Oh my god," whispered a frightened Riley.

"They're _bonding_," Tara lamented.

This was unlike anything she had envisioned.

This was _ghastly_.

Suddenly, the car shook.

A nervous Riley glanced in the rearview mirror, his eyes widening, and paled.

"Do I even want to know?" Tara asked, head hung and a hand covering her eyes.

"I think...I think they just…busted a move."

"The world is doomed."


End file.
